Busted While Driving En Femme

By Ginger Collins

It was a beautiful, San Francisco, early evening, and I was enjoying it thoroughly as I drove my second-hand, 15-year-old, 911 Porsche from my apartment at the foot of Telegraph Hill near the Embarcadero to a club in the Polk St. “Gulch” that had been recommended to me. I don’t usually drive in heels, but on this occasion, I was dressed “to the nines,” and I didn’t want to bother dragging along a set of flats with me in the car. Besides, since I drive so infrequently in heels, it was different, and thus, fun.

Vanity is a curse, and every block or so, I would check my personal appearance in the rear-view mirror. I liked what I saw. My hairstyle, earrings, prescription glasses, and makeup were just right. I was especially pleased with my eyeliner. Sometimes, I don’t do it well. Tonight, though was a winner. I looked seductive and sexy, and not at all trashy. As for my lips, once again, the makeup gods must have guided my hand as I applied multiple, lustrous coats of a scarlet red, creamy texture from the tube labeled, “Jezebel.” The result was an impressive butterfly. Similarly, the powder, perfume, and soft caress of my carefully selected evening clothes made me feel ultra feminine. I was purring like a cat. So was my sports car’s 3,605cc engine with the Bosch Digital Motor Electronics system.

You can imagine my shock and surprise, then, when checking my appearance in the rear-view mirror for the umpteenth time, I saw the unmistakable flashing lights of a SFPD Black and White one-car length behind me. Uh-oh! It couldn’t be me, could it? I hadn’t been speeding or running red or caution lights. What followed next was the blast of his siren. It surely was me! I pulled over the first chance I got and came to a complete stop. Like a predatory creature, the B&W mimicked my movements. Blessedly, its siren was silenced. although its flashing lights continued their obscene, flicker-vertigo-inducing rotation. We, both, sat there for several minutes, I in my car, the police officer in his, as he no doubt ran my license plate through the system for ownership, theft, and any outstanding warrants. In the meantime, my anxiety meter was pegged.

Somewhere in a backroom of my brain I remembered the advice that when stopped by a police officer you should remain seated and keep your hands visible on the steering wheel. I did so at the traditional 10 and 2 o’clock positions, and prayed that everything would turn out alright. I looked straight ahead and tried my best to seem relaxed and casual, although I was anything but. My freshly lacquered, long, press-on nails glistened in the approaching darkness as I nervously flexed my fingers.

After what seemed like an eternity, the officer climbed out of his vehicle, walked slowly over to mine all the while assessing the situation, and leaned down to peer at me through my open window.

“Madam, do you know that your right taillight is inoperative?” he asked in a polite, neutral voice.

“No, I didn’t officer,” I somehow managed in my best “damsel in distress” response.

“May I see your license, please?” was his next question. Again, a neutral tone with no hint of hostility.

“Of course,” I replied as confidently as I could. The moment of truth had arrived. Fight or flee? Unfortunately, I couldn’t do either. With resignation, I settled into my seat and waited for the invariable humiliation. My long fingernails, which I am not used to, made it difficult to extract my license from my clutch purse, but after several stabs, I produced it.

“Madam, your license says ‘Mr. William Collins.’ That doesn’t match your appearance.” He paused. “Could you please show me secondary identification as well as your vehicle registration and insurance card? Also, would you kindly accompany me to my car? We need to sort this out, and don’t be alarmed. I’m sure that there is no problem.” He smiled genuinely, and my transgender antennae, which were on full alert expecting an imminent attack, went down several threat levels. For some inexplicable reason I trusted him.

He opened the car door for me and held it as I almost expertly executed a feminine egress from my car without embarrassing myself, but at the same time, flashing a touch of thigh highs clipped to a garter belt. Then I click-clacked back to his B&W while a slight breeze played with my hemline. Strangely enough, I was no longer scared.

He went through my documents slowly and with thoroughness. I could tell that this was one street-smart cop. Yet at the same time, there was neither belligerence nor disrespect regarding my obvious charade, namely, that I was a cross dresser; however, I felt that he was surreptitiously eyeing my dress and demeanor critically from head-to-toe. It was rather curious, but in my now relaxed state, I assumed that he had seen it all and that I was merely a minor pawn on a huge chessboard called “Life.”

Moments later, as he handed me back my documents, he said, “Everything is in order, Ms. Collins. I’m not going to ticket you, but please consider this as a Warning. You need to get that taillight fixed pronto. I recommend that you drive home immediately. Unless I get a call, I’ll follow you to ensure that you don’t get stopped again. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you, officer,” I replied as softly as my testosterone-laced voice would allow. “I am grateful for your courtesy. By the way, what is your name?”

“Officer Parish.” His voice was smooth and friendly. “Take care,” he said as he offered me his hand. I noticed that despite his firm handshake, he had long fingers with well-groomed nails. True to his word, he followed me home. Once there, he flashed his patrol car’s lights as I parked and was gone. A little part of me was sorry that I would probably never see him again. Sigh! Subsequently, I mixed a double scotch, slipped into a delicate peignoir, and clicked on Turner Classic Movies.

Fate must be the hunter, though, because six weeks later when I finally made it to the “tranny” bar I had earlier intended to go, I sensed a familiar presence take the seat next to me at the bar. We turned to look at each other with mutual admiration. I was once, again, “dressed to the nines.” This time in a pink embroidered jacket dress with matching dressy pumps with covered heel. I was feeling frisky and horny. My newly arrived companion was gorgeous. She was attired in a white, one-piece lace dress with a Sheer hat and embellished mesh pumps. Her makeup was impeccable. This lady knew style.

I proffered my hand and said, “I’m Ginger Collins. For some reason, you look familiar.”

She smiled warmly as she took my hand and replied, “I hope so. I’m Officer Parish. Did you get your taillight repaired?” Her voice was smooth and friendly, her fingers were long, and her nails were well groomed, and this time, polished as she seductively intoned, “Please call me, Bunny.”

And I did, long into the night and into the next day!

Colonel, Your Slip Is Showing, Sir!

By Ginger Collins

PROLOGUE

It was no longer my imagination. As I looked at my reflected masculine image in a hand-held mirror, I could clearly see my head of hair was much fuller than before and grew more quickly. In addition, it was slowly turning a lighter blond color as if I were highlighting it. Moreover, I noticed that I was developing breasts. Definite fatty protuberances were clearly taking shape. My areoles were larger and decidedly pinkish. My nipples were no longer mere nubs but had a measurable shaft even when passive. When I rubbed them, they elongated even further and were quite taut. Fingering them was a pleasant sensation, very sensual, that produced a tingling feeling within me. Confliction abounded. I was simultaneously fascinated and confounded by these exotic and bizarre changes that were occurring within my body. How and why does a 38-year-old male, presumably in perfect health, suddenly start to develop female breasts? What made it harder for me was the fact that I was a Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel and Naval Aviator in command of a Helicopter Squadron in a combat zone. My unpremeditated biological change was certainly not in keeping with the good order and discipline of my unit. Fortunately, we were rotating out of the dessert within a week and were actually in the process of turning our aircraft and equipment over to our replacement squadron. My latest tour in the hellhole known as Iraq was almost over. I was relatively certain that I could make it out of country unmasked. It would not be easy, though.

For almost a month, now, I had been taping my newly acquired growths with an Ace bandage in order to conceal them. It also meant very early and late showers in the communal shower tent when no one was around to observe me. As a matter of fact, I could not even strip to my T-shirt in front of people anymore. It was too revealing. So, I spent a lot of time in my flight suit with the zipper fully zipped. Further to my bewilderment, I noticed that I was shaving my facial hair less and less. Currently, I was down to twice a week. On the other hand, that my muscle tone was waning and my body fat was increasing and not only in the pectoral area. Over the past few weeks at night as I lay in my rack and examined my body I found that I was fleshier in those areas where I had previously been lean. Unknown forces were obviously at work and my body chemistry was haywire. With much trepidation, I replaced the mirror in my shaving kit, taped my boobs, donned underwear, a flight suit, boots, and my shoulder holster 9mm weapon. I topped myself off with a squadron emblazoned baseball cap and trooped off to the Group Commander’s office for his weekly briefing of squadron commanders. At least for a few more days, my personal confusion would take a back seat to the war.

CHAPTER I: BALI BRA MAY CALL YOU

Two months later as the taxi drove me to the Navy Annex in Arlington Virginia, the home of the U. S. Marine Corps, I knew that my fighting days were over. After three combat tours in the dessert or “sand box” as we referred to Iraq/Afghanistan, there was no way that I was going back, at least, not as a Marine Corps officer. The Corps was a warrior society and I was no longer a member in good standing of its cutting edge. For reasons beyond my control, I was decidedly unwelcome. In keeping with this surreal atmosphere (talk about irony), the Mid-Easterner cab driver after repeated looks in his rearview mirror had long ago given up on my sexual identity. When he pulled up to the entrance, he shrugged his shoulders, pointed to his meter and said, “$22.40, sir” although with a question mark inflection in his voice. He wasn’t sure and that gifted me with perverse pleasure. I gave him the correct amount, a thank you, and a $5 tip as I alighted from his vehicle. He once again, checked my androgynous facial features. A faint smile, which could have meant anything, parted his lips. Then he was gone. I checked my watch. It read 17:00 hours. Thus, I had a few minutes to spare for my 17:15 meeting with the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps. Not surprisingly, the parking lot was deserted since it was late on a Saturday afternoon. This was a rather strange time for a meeting, but one in keeping with my personal situation. The Marine Corps definitely wanted me out sight and better yet, out of mind.

The Assistant Commandant’s receptionist, a tall, slender female Master Sergeant in Service ‘A’ uniform with slacks, whose name tag read “Mancillas” greeted me professionally, “Good evening, Colonel. General Walsh will be with you shortly. Please have a seat. May I take your coat?”

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Mancillas.” The coat to which she referred was a London Fog; one I wore almost constantly now publicly in order to cover up my 36A breasts when they were not taped down. Today, they were not so restrained. Rather, they were comfortably encased in a nylon Bali bra. My unbuttoned sport jacket and loose-fitting polo shirt hid them somewhat, albeit not completely. I removed my overcoat while affecting as much of a concave chest posture as I could manage and handed it to her while I closely watched her face for a reaction. There was none. Either she did not suspect or she had been well briefed. Time would tell.

As I sat and waited, I idly scanned a copy “Leatherneck” magazine, an old edition, and surreptitiously glanced at the receptionist as she typed at her computer. More and more I was paying careful attention to women’s fashion, makeup, movements, gestures, body language, speech patterns, and voice tones. It was a matter of survival. At the rate my body was morphing from Mars to Venus, I would soon need these skills full time.

Master Sergeant Mancillas interrupted my reverie with “General Walsh will see you now, sir. Please come this way.” I did as she bade and was ushered into the General’s spacious office. In my best military fashion, I walked briskly to a spot two paces in front of his desk, stood at attention before him, and said, “Lieutenant Colonel Carson reporting as ordered, sir.” There was no concavity to my chest now. Both my chest “weapons” were on full display. I wondered if my nipples were showing. I kind of hoped they were.

“At ease, Colonel. This is going to be an informal and off-the-record conversation,” General Walsh said before we shook hands pro forma and he escorted me across his large office over to a lounging area that consisted of a couch, stuffed chairs, and coffee table arrangement that were by a window with a spectacular view of Arlington National Cemetery. He chose a large chair that was clearly his. I sat down to his right on one end of the couch.

A proverbial pregnant pause followed. Despite his years of command presence, he was obviously ill at ease with the subject of our late afternoon táªte-á -táªte. Secretly, I relished his discomfort. I knew how he felt.

“Colonel,” he began. “You have an outstanding record as a Marine officer and Naval Aviator. Your combat flying in Iraq and Afghanistan was exemplary and I noted with pleasure your award of the Distinguished Flying Cross and 10 Air Medals as well as a Purple Heart.” He paused, seemingly lost with regard to how to proceed next and then sputtered, “Ah, hell, Colonel, let’s cut to the chase. We can’t have our Marines, particularly field grade officers, undergoing sex changes even if they are not voluntary as you claim. You understand that, don’t you?” Without giving me an opportunity to answer, he continued, “Just look at you. You’ve got breasts for crying out loud.” He shook his head in bewilderment and looked down at his shoes. There was no way he could look me in the eye.

My passionate response was equally as candid as I replied, “I understand that General. Please bear in mind, though, that this is not something I wished or brought upon myself. I am a victim just as much as if I had been severely wounded in combat. Everything in my life was normal until this last of my three back-to-back tours in the ‘sand box.’ In effect, sir, I am a wounded warrior and I feel that I should be treated accordingly. The Marine Corps has a reputation for taking care of its own.” As I said these words, I looked him straight in the eye although he continued to avoid mine.

My plea must have touched a nerve for he relaxed a bit and slightly nodded his head before saying, “Good point, Colonel. What do you propose?”

“I want to stay on active duty and get my 20 years so that I can retire with my pension and benefits. As you know, sir, that’s two years away. To continue my career, I propose to change my name from Terry Carson to Terri Walker--- that’s Terri with an ‘i’ and in a matter of a few weeks begin living full time as female. By the way, ‘Walker’ is my middle name. There are numerous independent billets extraneous to the Marine Corps to which I can be assigned. The remoter the assignment, the better it will be. If one doesn’t exist, you can create one. No doubt the CIA could easily create a temporary identity for me that would be discrete and authentic; one that would not bring any embarrassment either to the Corps or to myself. I might add that I am a competent officer whether I wear pants or a skirt, and that I can be of continued valuable service to the Corps.”

At the word, “skirt,” I noticed that General Walsh visibly winced and I hoped I had not overplayed my hand. Apparently I had not for he answered, “Okay, Colonel. I’ll look into it and get back to you. In the meantime, you are to stay on administrative leave and continue your medical consultations and testing at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Please, keep a low profile. It’s best for all concerned.” The interview was over. I reclaimed my coat from Master Sergeant Mancillas and headed out into the rapidly approaching darkness.

CHAPTER II: TORQUE AND SLACKER

My low profile didn’t last much beyond the confines of the General’s office, though. As luck would have it, on my way out of the Headquarters building after my “prayer session” with General Walsh, I ran smack into an old friend whom I had first met in flight school at Pensacola 18 years earlier when I was a student and he was a formation instructor. Now he was a Brigadier General and the number one assistant to a three-star general in the Corps’s Division of Aviation. It was none other than my former flight leader, drinking buddy, and friend from several operational squadrons plus commanding officer, Bob “Torque” Hanson. He saw me first and called me by my nickname, “Hey, Slacker, what the hell are you doing here?” “Slacker” of course was a jibe at my Type “A” personality. I was the classic anal-retentive. I pretended not to hear and continued walking hoping that he would think he was mistaken.

These hopes were immediately dashed as once again I heard Torque call out, “Slacker, get your sorry ass over here before I get pissed off.” I surrendered to the inevitable, assumed my best concave chest posture, manufactured a false smile of confidence, and turned to meet my past. It met me head on. A crushing handshake on his part was followed with the usual “son-of-bitch it’s good to see you” mutually exchanged amenities. Naturally, I was concerned with his reaction to my changing appearance. To my surprise, his only comment was, “You sure look different. Have you lost some weight?” I answered as casually as I could, “ Yeah, repeated trips to the ‘sand box’ will do that to you.” Suffice it to say, there was no way I could make a graceful exit from his company.

Thirty minutes later, I was sipping an ice-cold martini with him in his bachelor pad apartment in nearby Crystal City and reminiscing about combat flying and the broken state of the Army and Marine Corps because of the debacle in Iraq. He must have thought it odd that I kept my London Fog on as I settled into his living room settee, but as a polite host he pretended not to notice my eccentric behavior. I, on the other hand, feigned mainland coldness. Two martinis later, however, I discarded the overcoat while sucking in my chest and hunching my shoulders forward. It wasn’t a perfect disguise; howsoever, because he wasn’t looking for tits on me, he didn’t see any. The situation reminded me of Edger Allan Poe’s “Purloined Letter,” where the obvious was in plain sight. Anyway, I didn’t push my luck and for the most part remained fairly vigilant despite the 80 proof Bombay Gin coursing through my bloodstream.

We continued our “war stories.” As we did, alcohol flowed, along with poetic license or exaggeration. Soon, Torque and I were the best Marine Corps combat pilots since Pappy Boyington and Joe Foss. For the moment, I forgot that I was an erstwhile man or hybrid woman and was caught up in the temporary cessation of my cares and woes. Torque was a great guy and I was his long-time protégé and friend. So relaxed was I that I had not noticed before that he was now sitting alongside me and that our legs were occasionally touching and that more and more he was nudging me with his elbow as he spoke and periodically resting his arm around my shoulder. Our putative intimacy was not born of sexual innuendo but rather shared life or death decisions under fire, right? Well not quite. When he began to nuzzle my ear, even in my drunkenness, I sensed that this was more than combat camaraderie. Before I could voice my consent or objection, though, he had framed my head with both his hands and had inserted a large tongue in my mouth, which instantly sought mine. Confusion as opposed to anger was my reaction and I met his invading member with mine. It was a fairly pleasant sensation and all my circuits grounded. Thus, I neither approved nor disapproved of his invasion of my person. Passiveness best described my mood. In light of this, his advances continued. The next thing I knew, Torque had unzipped his pants and pulled out his sizeable penis, which in its aroused state looked like a telephone pole. It was awesome in structure and implied intent. I was speechless. He took my hand, placed it around his prized member, and with his hand cupped over mine began a slow stroking motion. Once he was satisfied with the pace of my stroke, he devoted both of his hands to unbuckling and unzipping me. Then things got interesting. The softness of the fabric of my underpants first caught his roaming tactile attention. Next, his fingers explored their lacy waistband. I could tell that he sensed something wasn’t right. In a nanosecond thereafter, I heard him exclaim, “Holy shit. You’re wearing panties.” I was and they were pink.

The disgust and revulsion in his voice could probably have been heard throughout the entire Fairfax County. His penis shriveled to a mere shadow of itself. Suddenly, I was being body searched by him. He pulled my panty waistband out and took a cursory look at my atrophied male genitalia. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “You asshole.” I fully expected his next move and I wasn’t disappointed. His rapidly moving hands reached under my polo shirt and were met with a ribbon-adorned camisole and my Bali bra. He felt my breasts, but his only interest in these appendages was to see if they were real. Unfortunately, they were. He didn’t expect them and I hadn’t asked for them. Both of us were disappointed. He was more than I. At least, I was getting used to them.

“What the fuck have you done to yourself, Slacker?” he sneered. Completely overlooked in his righteous tone was the fact that he was the author of unsolicited homosexual advances to me, an officer junior in rank to him. The Service’s Uniform Code of Military Justice would have a field day with him if I were to prefer charges. It would be a public relations disaster for the Marine Corps of unlimited scope. The irony was not lost on me, but I kept it to myself. Truthfully, I was more wrapped up in my personal crisis than I was in Torque’s sexual preferences.

“It’s a long story, Torque. Do you really want to know?” I countered with as much dignity and aplomb as I could muster, which wasn’t much considering the circumstances.

“Yeah, shooter, I do. Go ahead,” he said calmly albeit with disdain. As he did, he made a trip to the kitchen and returned with two cold bottles of Tecate beer, one of which he tossed to me. A bottle opener on the fly completed the deal.

I swigged a long draught and began my tale. For the next hour or so, I gave him a detailed description of how against my will I was going from Terry to Terri. Torque sat in rapt silence. I went on to tell him that the doctors at both Bethesda Naval Hospital in Washington, D.C. and at the U. S. Navy’s School of Aviation Medicine in Pensacola, Florida were completely baffled and stymied by my medical condition. They all agreed it had to do with a hormonal imbalance. Large amounts of estrogen were overwhelming my normal supply of testosterone. In effect, my testosterone production was not only nullified, it was an increasingly negative value in comparison to the estrogen that was taking control over my body chemistry. Where was the estrogen coming from and why? At first they thought that I was administering it to myself. Close observation of me as an in-patient, however, at both facilities and extensive psychological evaluation and laboratory testing disabused them of that notion, however. Moreover, testosterone injections were to no avail. Some unknown internal mechanism in my body immediately countered with a greater onslaught of estrogen. In short, I was slowly losing the sexual determination war. My maleness was in retreat and a mysterious femaleness was in ascendancy.

Specialists gave me no more than another month or so before my newly arrived secondary female characteristics would be in full bloom. I ticked them off for Torque: no body hair, smoother skin, increased body fat, a smaller waist, fuller hips, and breast development, of course. Psychological changes were creeping into my persona as well. I was now prone to inexplicable mood changes, crying jags, and hot flashes. On the other hand, I did feel more peaceful and I was certainly less aggressive as I was being chemically castrated. That was an unexpected plus. “So, the long and short of my saga, Torque,” I concluded, “Is that I am the equivalent of a pre-operative male-to-female transsexual who is about seven months into a supervised hormone ingestion regimen.”

Torque finally broke his silence. “What do you mean by ‘pre-operative’?” he asked.

“Before going under the knife,” I answered.

“Ouch,” he grimaced and crossed his legs.

“Not really, Torque. Everything is relative. As a male, a penis is a big deal to you. To me as a female transsexual, though, it’s a big obstacle; one that I am going to rid myself of surgically in a matter of months.” I paused more for effect rather than to collect my thoughts because I had given a lot of thought to my strange metamorphosis. I pressed on, “In fact, I along with others are of the opinion that I will pass quite successfully as a woman. There is no question in my mind that given my circumstances, I would much prefer to be a transsexual woman than a feminized male. To be truthful, I really don’t think of myself much as a male anymore. That’s why I wear a bra and panties. I even sleep in a nightgown now. By the way, nightgowns are very comfortable. As a dig at his coming out of the closet, I threw in, “You might have your boyfriend try one.”

Torque’s retort was, “Don’t be a wiseass, Slacker. You have a full plate as it is.” To emphasize his point, he also flipped me the “bird.” It was time to leave. We were both emotionally spent. As I did, instead of a handshake, he squeezed both my hands and gave me a chaste kiss on the forehead. “Stay in touch, Slacker,” he admonished, “And be careful.”

“I will, Torque. You too,” I replied. Then I was out the door and more confused than ever.

CHAPTER III: SWEET AND SASSY

As if things in my life were not careening enough, the next two months went to fast forward. My case handler at Bethesda Naval Hospital, Navy Commander Gail Smith, advised me for my own peace of mind to accept my new niche in life and to dress, act, and live accordingly. So with her help, I really did begin my real life transition from Terry with a “y” to Terri with an “i.” It began in earnest when she dropped by my apartment early one morning with some basic female attire and accessories to outfit me with so we could go shopping for a complete wardrobe. She was actually quite excited about seeing me cross the gender bridge. “Terri,” she began enthusiastically, “This is going to be a lot of fun. It’s going to be a girl’s day where you indulge and pamper yourself as only a woman can. Trust me, ‘hon,’ you’re going to love it. Now, strip down to your ‘undies’ and put these on. I hope you’re not planning on wearing panty hose, today, because you’re getting a pedicure.” I didn’t bother to answer her as I went into my striptease. To her evident delight after I discarded my standard polo shirt and khaki cargo pants, she soon found out my underpinnings consisted solely of panties and a bra. She eyed me from top-to-bottom and smiled approvingly as I slipped into the coral T-top with V-neckline, flowered Capri pants, and platinum, quarter-strap sandals that she had brought me

Eight hours later, Gail and I sat sipping chilled, crisp Chardonnays in a hip Georgetown bistro. It had been quite a day. My external transformation from Terry to Terri was more than complete. A facial, manicure, pedicure, and a sleek, feminine hairstyle can do that to you. So does the right underwear, especially, soft, lacy, and delicate unmentionables. It’s even better when you have a bra fitting such as the one I had had earlier in the day between my trips to the Spa and the Beauty Salon. I felt especially feminine now that my former male exterior frame was draped with chic silk and gabardine fabrics in the form of a semi-sheer, white, scoop blouse and a red A-line skirt with matching red, sling sandals to show off my Malibu Red toenails. As we chatted, I found myself occasionally tapping my freshly painted and expertly shaped fingernails on the table top in staccato bursts. It was both sensuous and fun. What was even more fun was watching the various guys in the place check Gail and me out. Gail was an attractive woman and apparently I was too. This added to my satisfaction and contentment. I wondered what it would be like to have sex in my new persona? I decided to find out.

Forty-five minutes after Gail and I had bid adieu at the bistro with an obligatory friendship hug with hunched shoulders so that our breasts wouldn’t touch and with our faces turned at right angles so as not to muss our respective make up, I found myself on the stoop of Torque’s apartment house ringing his doorbell with considerable trepidation. For what it’s worth, I had not gone there directly. My inner self insisted that I stop by my apartment first and change from my afternoon outfit that included sandals and casual attire to something a little more sophisticated. I elected to wear a red, silk, sheath dress, black fishnet stockings, and three-inch, “fuck me” pumps. Since it was only around 8:30 in the evening, I was fairly sure he would be home. What I wasn’t so sure about was how he would react to me in my feminine presentation. The voice box squawked, “Who’s there?” I nervously answered, “Slacker.” There was a short pause, but then the electric release on the door buzzed and I click-clacked my way into the foyer and across to the elevator. My heart was pounding and my cheeks felt flushed. I was on final approach into a box canyon with no wave-off capability.

I rapped gently on his apartment door. It opened almost immediately and my moment of truth was at hand. We silently inspected each other for what seemed like an eternity. Torque was barefoot and wearing blue jeans and green T-shirt. His hair was slightly tousled and he had a hint of beard stubble. His lean body looked trim and fit. From his facial expression I could detect nothing. I felt uncomfortable under its penetrating, neutral gaze and in an attempt to disguise my unease and shaking knees, I clutched my purse with both my hands tightly and simply said, “Well, Marine, are you going to ask me in or not?” He smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and with a sweeping hand gesture towards the interior replied, “By all means, Ms. Slacker, please come in. May I take your coat?” Since I wasn’t wearing one, this was either sarcasm or humor and I hoped that it was the latter.

I sat down on his couch, put my purse on the far side, crossed my legs, and carefully arranged my dress so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. In bygone days, I would have flopped into a seated position. Now, it was an orchestrated entry and one that I had mastered after much practice. I was positioned on the edge of the cushion, my back was straight, and my head was held high. Why not? It went with my new image.

Torque took it all in silently and I knew that he didn’t miss a beat as he sat down beside me. What I didn’t know was what he was thinking. Disgust? Revulsion? Contempt? Sympathy? To my immense surprise, he said, “You look nice. Very polished.” At this, all my pent up emotions erupted in a fury and I began to cry. “Damn you, Torque. Look what you’ve done to my mascara,” I eked out in between sobs. He closed the distance between us on the couch and gently embraced me. I immediately returned the favor and began hugging him as if he were a life preserver. In a manner of seconds we were kissing each other as if our lives depended upon it, and in a sense they did. He was a closet homosexual, who had long been in unrequited love with me, one of his former male pilots who now masqueraded quite successfully as a woman. As for me, I was a burgeoning, albeit artificial female, who was veering down a twisting, sexual orientation highway with a heavy, stiletto-heeled foot on the gas pedal and no brakes. Heretofore, I wanted to bang girls. Now I wanted to perform oral sex on one of my former squadron commanders who was gay! Talk about inverted flight…

We continued our clawing and pawing of each other. He broke one of our frantic clinches to say, “I’m not used to lipstick and tits.” I laughed, and countered, “I’m not used to beard stubbles, muscles, big tongues, and dicks.” And speaking of dicks, I started to grope his crotch. His bulge got bigger so I knew that I had hit pay dirt. His breathing became heavier and his tongue had completely caused mine to retract in full retreat. He was all over the inside of my mouth. It was like getting my teeth cleaned. As he continued to grope and tongue me, I casually undid the top button on his fly. Then ever so slowly, I eased his zipper down. Next I slid my right hand inside his jockey briefs and began to massage his balls. He started to shudder. It was obviously a long time since he had had a foreign hand visit his nether region. His penis was rock hard, and when I pulled the upper band of his briefs down to unmask his manhood in all its glory, it was poised like a missile ready to leave a launching pad. It sprang to full attention and was pointed at the stars and quivering ever so slightly. Let the countdown begin, I thought! I then broke our embrace and said, “Torque, please stand up.”

His response was, “Huh?”

I quickly jumped to my feet and said, ‘Trust me.”

With a puzzled look on his face, he reluctantly did as I asked. Once we were standing face to face, I pulled his T-shirt off and his jeans and briefs down to his ankles. I then got down on my knees so that I was eye to eye with his Cyclops, which I noted was oozing a tiny drop of semen. In a flash, I reached into my purse and pulled out my lipstick and compact and refreshed my lips.

“What the hell are you doing, Slacker?” he asked in a tone that harbored amusement and incredulity.

“Just fulfilling a fantasy, Torque,” I replied. “Or maybe it’s destiny, but for my first blowjob, I want to do it in the classic manner. Okay?”

So there I was, a male, former Marine pilot on my knees in a sheik cocktail dress, fishnet hose, high heels, a disarranged hairdo, smudged mascara, and recently acquired boobs getting ready to give my old drinking and flying buddy, and former commanding officer oral sex. If only General Walsh could see us now, I mused. Oh, well, my signal was “Charlie” as we say in carrier operations and I took the base of his shaft with my right hand and eased my open mouth like a big O-ring onto the head of his prick and adjusted it for zero tolerance. Bingo. It was a perfect fit. Subsequently, I let my tongue and lips do the walking as I experimented with how much of his love stick I could ingest. It turned out that I could handle a lot. I licked, sucked, slurped, and swallowed his “main stay” with as much imagination as I could muster. At first, he was passive and simply along for the ride. In short order, though, he got into the spirit of things and started to thrust his pelvis in my direction in sync with the piston-like motions of my mouth as I deeply inhaled his stiff erection. What I lacked in finesse, I made up for in enthusiasm. There was no doubt that he was enjoying this coupling, but so was I. Maybe there was truth to the old saw about “giving is better than receiving.” As I continued to gobble away, I could feel his penis gorge and his pelvic thrusts start to take on more intensity.

The end was near and when he when he climaxed, he went out with a big bang. It was as if someone had placed a garden hose inside my mouth and turned the water on at full pressure. My mouth cavity was filled to bursting with his love juice. It was all I could do to keep it from spilling it out as I gamely swallowed large amounts of his ejaculate in quick succession. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered something to the effect that semen was non-fattening. I sincerely hoped so because I had just consumed a massive quantity of it. Ever the good Marine, I licked him completely dry and disengaged from his appendage, which by now was rather placid, lipstick smeared, and a mere shadow of its former size.

“Mission accomplished General?” I teasingly asked.

“Ooh-Ray,” he answered in kind. “You are one hell-of-a cocksucker, Lieutenant Colonel Walker.” That said it all. Afterwards, he marched off to the bathroom with his tight buns clutching each other as if they would never part and his drooping balls clanging against each other. Omigod, and the best was yet to come!

CHAPTER IV: CRUNCH TIME

And come it did about an hour later after a lengthy, naked, grappling session on his large bed with him on top of a spread-eagled me. Our hands, mouths, tongues, and lips had been all over each other like prisoners on a jailbreak, when he simply said, “Slacker, it’s time.” There was no confusion between us. I knew what he meant and continued to tongue his ear while gently massaging his testicles. He eased up from me slightly so he could turn on the nightstand lamp. Next he opened the stand’s drawer and pulled out a pack of condoms along with a jar of lubricant jelly, a pair of rubber gloves, and several hand towels. It was crunch time.

“Scared?” he asked.

“No. I’m curious, though. Will it hurt?”

“Not if we go slow and use a lot of lubricant,’ he assured me as he tore the tinfoil open on the prophylactic and carefully slipped it on his tumescent member. It reminded me somewhat of a woman easing a leg into her hose. Wow, how my perspective had changed! What really caught my attention, however, was when he slipped a rubber glove on his right hand, opened the KY jar, inserted his middle finger into it, and came up with a huge gob of the stuff attached.

“Okay, Slacker, a little aerobatics are in order,” he said as he recoiled into a kneeling position above and facing me and spread my legs. “Lift your legs up and place one on each of my shoulders.” I did as he instructed and never in my life had I felt so vulnerable, not even when flying combat and taking fire. It was an incredibly submissive position and I was simultaneously excited and nervous. “Relax, okay?” he soothed.

I almost did until I felt his gloved finger begin to slowly enter my rectal area. The lubricant was cold and yucky feeling. I winced. He stopped. The start-stop process was repeated several times until his finger was fully inserted and the lube had been deposited. In the meantime, I wavered between desire and revulsion at my situation. As we say in the flying game, this was truly “dead reckoning” navigation for me.

Just as I was getting used to the presence of the foreign object in this unfamiliar place, he swiftly removed it. I then watched in fascination as he removed the glove and this time with his bare fingers reached back into the lube jar and extracted a large dollop and lavishly applied it to his sheathed penis. After drying his fingers with a hand towel, he moved into the attack position and once again I felt a greasy, cylindrical object about to invade me. To his credit, he was gentle and unhurried. He knew when to push, when to stop and rest, and when to continue. Constantly, he importuned me to “relax and take it easy.” Eventually I did and my fear and discomfort began to meld into acceptance. About the time he was fully inserted to the hilt and I could feel his balls against my underside, I felt anxiety free. At this point, we both rested. His penetration of me had produced no pain but rather strange and unusual sensations. What came next though, launched me like a cat shot from a carrier deck. He began to thrust in and out, ever so slowly at first, then faster. All at once, the sensations and nerve excitations that I was experiencing went from neutral to positive to joyfully ecstatic in a flash and I began to thrust my pelvis back in sync with him. At the same time I began to finger my nipples. Waves of pleasures began to engulf my entire body starting from my toes and spreading everywhere. Even my long dormant and atrophied penis was affected and I could feel that it was dripping. I had never experienced an orgasm like this and it was multiple.

By now, Torque and I were thrashing together like wild animals in heat. Each of us wanted to fuck the other’s brains out and we almost did. I came for the last time at the same time Torque shot his load. And what a load it was. His panting reached fever pitch, his thrusting became frenzied, and his cock engorged to what felt like twice its diameter. Bam, bam, bam, I could feel his prick shudder as each of his ejaculation salvos was fired. It was the most satisfying sexual encounter I had ever had. As Torque pulled out, I was so happy I started to cry. “Hey, Slacker,” Torque intoned gently, “I’ve never had a guy cry before after I balled him. I guess underneath all those girly clothes you are a chick after all. Congratulations, dearest.” Then he was off to the bathroom again with his limp dick, tight buns, and swinging balls. It had been quite a night so far and it wasn’t over yet. I shuddered with happiness.

An hour later we were once more engaged in coitus only this time to fulfill a sexual fantasy of mine, we did it “doggie” style on the floor with me on all fours wearing my fishnets, heels, and garter belt. My hair was disheveled and my tits were banging against my chest in consonance with our mutual thrusting. I never before had felt so sexy and horny and powerful. I had Torque at my beck and call. His hard-on had reached the edge-of-the-cliff mode. He had to get it off. There would be no backing off or pulling out prior to his orgasm. I fully understood now the power of the pussy a woman has or in my case, a transwoman engaged in anal intercourse as the recipient. It was awesome! Just as he was about to come, he removed his hands from each of my hips and started to stroke my breasts with emphasis on my nipples. The effect was electric as well as immediate. We soon climaxed simultaneously in a glorious finale that left both of us gasping. This would be a tough act to follow I silently mused

CHAPTER V: THE CHOPPING BLOCK

It would be an act that was never to be repeated verbatim, however, because two weeks later I checked into Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore for my sexual reassignment surgery. I traveled alone and in civilian clothes. General Walsh was insistent that I keep the Marine Corps out of my bizarre personal situation as much as possible although the operation was being paid for through a government insurance program. Anyway, that was the least of my worries as I was administered anesthesia and went out like a light. The “big knife” was next. I was on “bingo” fuel as we say in the military when you divert to your alternate airport with no fuel to spare. My problem was a little more extreme. There would be no “wave off” if I screwed up the approach. When I woke up I would truly be a feminine Terri. My old self, namely, Terry with the large Rolex watch, Wings of Gold, and a macho personality would be as extinct as the great piston war birds of the past. So be it. I felt like I was being reborn, only this time I would be swaddled in pink rather than blue. Blissfully, everything went black

I awoke many hours later to an unreal scene. The images were blurry but someone was stroking my brow. Another was holding my hand. An authoritative voice from somewhere was asking me, presumably, “How do you feel?” I wasn’t sure. It took me a long time to focus and to recapture reality. As my senses re-entered the world, I realized that it was my doctor who was stroking my brow and none other than my gay boyfriend, Torque, who was holding my hand. Relief and joy instantly trumped my uncertainty and fear and I started to come alive. My rebirth went all the more quickly as both assured me that the operation had been a smashing success. My male hardware was gone and I was now the possessor of the female species’ most powerful characteristic, an operational vagina. I squeezed Torque’s hand in grateful acknowledgement and once again succumbed to the effects of the anesthesiology and fatigue of the operation and passed out.

Subsequent hospital awakenings were less dramatic and more mundane. As the days sped by, I was poked, prodded, and examined by doctors and nurses as well as bathed and fed. There were assisted trips to the bathroom where I experienced my new style of urination. There would be no more uplifting of toilet seats for me. Hereafter, they would be battened down. I was also introduced to the necessary practice of dilation of my new sexual acquisition. Suffice it to say, it was painful and time consuming. I was told, however, that pleasure would eventually take the place of pain as my vagina was shaped into a permanent opening. Naturally, I was anxious to find out! I prayed that Torque would like sex face-to-face as much as he liked it chest-to-back.

My hospital rehabilitation went quicker than I anticipated and in about two weeks I was again ensconced in Torque’s apartment in Crystal City where I was told to take it easy, rest, recuperate, and dilate, dilate, dilate. For six weeks, I diligently did. Sometimes, Torque helped, and that was fun. As his reward or incentive, I would give him a blowjob afterward. He was one compliant and “happy camper.” As a tease, whenever I was ready to blow him, I would apply heavy coats of lipstick beforehand. This became our code. In fact, he started to carry a tube of mine around with him in his pocket. When he became horny, which was quite often, he would pull it out with great fanfare, and place it on the coffee, end or kitchen table before me. I would smile coyly and pretend to examine it as if I didn’t know its significance. This in turn would drive Torque rock hard and a huge tent pole would form in his pants. The more I dallied, the antsier he became.

In fact, one day, I lingered too long. Out of a sense of power or control, perhaps, I slowly and provocatively applied lip liner, lipstick, and gloss to my botox-enhanced lips. I thought that I was being cute and sexy. Torque thought that I was being difficult. Although I was seductive, I was sending mixed signals. Not good! He was horny and the twain didn’t meet. Too my dismay and chagrin, he slapped the compact mirror and gloss out of my hands. They flew to various scattered landing points in the living room The next thing I knew, he manhandled me onto the floor, flopped me on my stomach, raised my dress, pulled my panties down, and shoved his penis into my anus without lube or protection and began to pound me like this was the last chopper out of Saigon back in 1975. I was both surprised and overwhelmed. My good side knew that I was being raped. My bad side enjoyed it! In short order, he came like a tidal wave. It was massive and engulfing. So much so, that I could feel his semen leaking out of me. We were past the point of no return. He had marked me as surely as a wolf marks his territory. I was his and he was the Alpha Male. I quivered with a mixture of disdain and delight as he slapped my ass, marched off to the bathroom to clean up, and left me crying and whimpering in a fetal position on the floor. It had been the best fuck of my life!

We never discussed this lovemaking bout again, but it was always understood thereafter that Torque was one horny guy and needed a lot of servicing. I was more than happy to oblige. In the course of a typical day, I would give him a blowjob when he woke up in the morning before I made his coffee and toast. In the evening before dinner I would give him a scotch and soda along with a hand job. At night, before we went to sleep, I would have him nuzzle one of my tits, which he absolutely adored. Then, when he was rock-hard, I would guide his cock into my faux vagina and make sure that he had come.

On occasion and just for fun since I had no duties to perform at Head Quarters Marine Corps (HQMC), I would don my new, female, Service ‘A” Uniform complete with black pumps, gloves, and a purse and breeze off to his office at the Navy Annex on some official pretext. Invariably, I would first stop by the Assistant Commandant’s office, if General Walsh was not around, to see my friend, Master Sergeant Mancillas, for the latest gossip on what was taking place in the building. She seemed to know where all the bodies were buried and delighted in telling me their location. I in turn would later pass this on to Torque and it gave him an edge in the political machinations that took place at HQMC.

Then so armed, I would visit Torque in his lair as if I were on official business. Monkey business was more like it because as soon as his office assistant left and closed the door, he would swivel back comfortably in his chair while I unzipped his fly, reached though his boxer shorts, and grabbed his dick. I would lick the underside of its head to get his attention, which took about as long as a heartbeat. I was highly experienced at sucking his cock by now so I could easily ingest it whole in my mouth without a gag reflex. I thought of myself as an expert flute musician and masterfully played tunes on it that I knew he liked. And like them he did. Just before he would come, he would purr softly, almost like a cat. His ejaculation was always boat-threatening capsizeble, but I was ready and never spilled a drop on his trousers. He had to be carefully groomed in case he was called to the General Walsh’s or the Commandant’s office.

CHAPTER VI: THE PINK SLIPPER

On one of my sexual forays to Torque’s office, though, Master Sergeant Mancillas had some disconcerting news for me when I stopped by her office to gossip. She told me that General Walsh had become aware of my intimate relationship with Torque and was making threatening noises. Just as she started to go into the details, a cavalcade of visitors and phone calls interrupted us. “I’ll meet you tonight at the ‘Pink Slipper’ at seven,” she hurriedly whispered. “We need to talk. Do you know where it’s at?”

“No, but I’ll find it,” I replied. “Where is it?”

“Southwest DC. Here’s the address,” she said as she scribbled it quickly on a receptionist’s card. “Don’t overdress, but wear something soft and summery.” Then with a conspiratorial wink, she was gone. Duty called.

I expected the “Pink Slipper” to be a “ladies” bar and it was, but not quite the kind I had in mind. From the outside it was an innocuous looking, just another out-of-the way, watering hole. Once inside, though, it screamed something more than mere sisterhood or feminine solidarity. It was as if the distant Isle of Lesbos had been transplanted to our nation’s capital in total. This was definitely Lesbian country and I in my “soft and summery” thin frock was eye candy for most of the bar’s occupants. There was an obvious dress code. The Alpha females were for the most part wearing baggy pants, sneakers or boots with laces loosely tied, and tank tops without bras. Headbands were favored and make up was non-existent. These women varied in size, shape, and attractiveness; however, one thing was certain: it was all very butch. I felt as if I were hanging on a hook in a meat locker waiting to be picked up and carried off for slaughter. It was intimidating, but exciting at the same time.

I was evaluating my next move when seemingly out of nowhere, Master Sergeant Mancillas or “Jane” as she was known to me when we were alone, appeared at my side. True to the bar’s dress code, she wore dessert-cami-cargo pants, dessert-combat boots, and a dark green tank top with no bra. Her nipples were large and distinct. Beads of sweat dotted her brow and I noticed several black hairs protruding from her armpits. Outside of black eyeliner, her face was bereft of makeup. In one hand she had a pencil-thin cigar. In the other, a longneck bottle of beer. “Hi, Slacker,” she greeted me. “I can see why Torque has the ‘hots’ for you. Let’s sit down and get out of the limelight.” That was okay with me as I followed her to a booth that offered considerable privacy from the bar’s patrons. I slid in first, and to my surprise, she sat alongside of me rather than across. No doubt, bar etiquette.

“General Walsh is on to you and Torque,” she began, “And he is royally pissed. He says your relationship is contrary to quote, ‘good order and discipline,’ unquote not to mention Torque’s future as a General Officer. In short, I’m supposed to tell you to knock it off. If you don’t, he’ll take it out on Torque. Do you get the drift?” She ended her monologue with a long swig of her beer and a deep inhalation of her cheroot.

“I get the drift,” I replied, “But I’m not sure what to do. Torque and I are not threats to the Marine Corps. This just doesn’t seem fair.” My eyes misted up and I could feel my mascara start to run. Just what I needed. So much for grace under pressure! I took a scented hankie from my purse and dabbed at them ever so gently. That didn’t help and I began to cry softly.

“Hey, Slacker, take it easy,” Jane intoned gently. “I’ve got a plan. Let’s go over to my apartment and discuss it. We chicks have to stick together. It’s called solidarity.” With her right arm she began to hug me and I felt better for it. Her left hand found my left thigh at the panty line and she began to finger it. I knew what she was doing and for some reason it didn’t bother me. In fact, I encouraged it by moving her hand closer to the center of my crotch. She might well be Torque’s career lifeline and I wasn’t about to let it go. “Okay, Jane,” I said. Meet me outside and I’ll follow you.”

An hour or so later, Jane and I were ensconced on her queen-size bed, naked as jaybirds, and busy as bees with our tongues, mouths, hands and vibrators as we repeatedly visited each and every orifice of the other’s respective bodies. I hadn’t been with a woman in some time and certainly not since my “chop” operation so I wasn’t quite sure how it would go. It went well! Women are more finely attuned to erogenous zones, and the pace of love making between them is slower. Plus it’s a lot of fun when there are four tits to play with as opposed to two. I noted with amusement that her genital area was bushy as opposed to mine, which was shaven clean. There was also the question of competition between us as to who had the better vibrator. She had the home court advantage in that she could draw on an assortment of pleasure makers from her bedside light stand while I could only fall back on my small “Pocket Rocket” that I always carried discreetly in my purse. Still, I held my own in our jousting and in fact brought her to a galactic orgasm before she did the same for me. After multiple, mutual outbursts, we both became satiated and it was time for “pillow talk,” the real reason for my visit.

“Here’s the deal, Slacker,” Jane began as she occasionally rubbed my clit with her right index finger. “Next week, General Walsh is going to call you into his office and tell you that he is about to transfer you to a remote and usually unfilled NATO liaison billet in Norway where you’ll serve out the rest of your time until you hit your magic 20 years which is about a year-and-a half from now. As for Torque, General Walsh is going to warn him never to see or communicate with you again as long as Torque is on active duty. If he does, General Walsh plans to kill his career either through a backwater assignment or poor fitness report so that Torque won’t get his second star and will be forced to retire. Do you get the drift?”

“Yes, I do,” I replied as I casually fingered her left nipple with my right hand. “And it seems so unfair and hopeless. Why can’t he just leave us alone?” I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Damn that estrogen!

Jane laughed before she said, “He used to be an okay dude, really fair, but in the last year or so, he has become a right-wing hypocrite, and that’s why he won’t be able to pull this off.”

I bolted upright in bed. “What do you mean?” I gasped for air and then almost in a squeak asked, “Why not?”

“Because ‘sweetie’, I have some highly incriminating evidence against him that would greatly embarrass the Marine Corps and make him look like the proverbial ‘laughing stock.’ Put something on and I’ll show you.” With that, she rolled out of bed and jumped into a set of white, male briefs and matching crew neck, T-shirt. I followed suit but donned my pink panties and lace-lavished-full slip. Barefoot I followed her out to the kitchen where we sat down across from each other at a table and I eagerly awaited her proposed solution to my dilemma. It was not long in coming.

In short order, she produced a thick manila folder crammed with color pictures of General Walsh along with a chronology of web site visits, times, and dates that made my head swim. It was almost unbelievable! I knew immediately that I would not be going to Norway and that Torque would not be denied his second star. Unbridled joy replaced my misty eyes. “This is incredulous, Jane,” I gushed. “How did you get it?”

Jane smiled wickedly as she began her explanation, “It was easy. Like many, older folks, the General is not a computer whiz and has lax security with regard to his personal laptop. Frequently, when he leaves the office to attend meetings or what not, especially on weekends, he leaves it unattended on his desk. That’s when I raid the cookie jar. I’m good at math and hacking comes naturally to me. In his case it was child’s play. I tinkered around with some of his tactical call signs and squadron numerical designations from his flying days, and bingo! I had his password. It must have taken me all of an hour,” she laughed. “Once I was in, it was easy to find where he spent most of his time.”

“And you’ve never disclosed it to anyone?” I asked.

“Nope, I held off because of my alternative life style which you saw and experienced tonight. Thus, I was willing to let him have his private forays on the wild side until I saw the hypocrisy in his righteous attitude towards you and Torque. By giving this information to you, I think that in my own way, I’m striking a blow for Human Rights for the entire Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender Community.”

“Can he trace this disclosure back to you,” I asked more in amusement than from concern.

“He might be able to, but so what? He could never prove it, and besides, any threat or negative action that he made to me, and I would automatically ‘out’ him. The military has a term for it: ‘Mutual Assured Destruction.’ We’ll both live with it. So, don’t worry about me. Look out for yourself and Torque.”

“I will, Jane, but how can I ever thank you?”

“Come back to bed, honey, and fire up your vibrator, hands, mouth, and tongue.” With that, she headed toward the bedroom. So did I and for about the next two hours, I gave her what she afterward claimed was some of the best sex of her life.”

CHAPTER VII: CAT FIGHT AT HEADQUARTERS MARINE CORPS

Four days later, I was summoned to appear in General Walsh’s office on a Tuesday at 14:00. Although I would wear my Service ‘A’ Uniform with skirt, my underpinnings were absolutely sensuous as well as luxurious and gave me an inner confidence like a top-flight showgirl. Ever the professional Marine, I went to great lengths to be immaculately groomed. This included a trip to my beauty salon in the morning for a touch-up haircut, manicure, and light, professional make over. By the time my appointed hour approached, I was more than ready to bust some glass ceilings and kick some ass. For good measure, I wore my Naval Aviator Wings, Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medals, and Purple Heart Ribbons. I knew that would get both the General’s attention and ire.

Master Sergeant Mancillas with a poker face greeted me upon my arrival. You would never know from her cool, business demeanor that five nights earlier I had reduced her to a quivering, groaning and sweating state of sexual bliss. She had really gotten it off and I must confess, so had I. My neo pussy twitched reflexively as I remembered our joyful, bedroom acrobatics. Ever the professional, though, she maintained her neutral façade and simply said, “Colonel, the General will see you now.”

“Thank you,” I replied as I purposefully entered his office, stopped two steps before his massive desk at attention with my uniform pumps at just the right 45-degree angle, and announced, “Lieutenant Colonel Terri Walker, the Marine Corps’ greatest female pilot, reporting as ordered, Sir.” It was hard to keep a straight face, but somehow, I did. He did not. His face contorted with anger and distaste seen only in movies as he leaped up from his chair and shouted, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing Carson?”

“It’s Walker, Sir. Lieutenant Colonel Walker,” I replied soothingly. “Lieutenant Colonel Carson died about six months ago at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore from wounds he received in Iraq. I believe you are intimately familiar with the circumstances.”

“I know who the fuck you are.” His words were spat out like expended tobacco juice. “And I’m about to do something about it. Ever hear of Norway? If you haven’t, you soon will. Two days from now you will report to the American Embassy there in Oslo on detached, special assignment where you will serve for the next year-and-a half playing with your vibrator until your retirement when the Marine Corps can finally cleanse you from its ranks. You are to cease all contact with Brigadier General Hanson. Do you read me, Colonel?”

“Yes, I do, General, but I don’t care for the Norway assignment. The winters are too cold. Besides, it will separate me from Torque, excuse me, I mean Brigadier General Hanson, to whom I am engaged, and I don’t think that’s in my best interest. So, General, I respectfully decline the assignment. No, I have decided to stay right here in DC in my present job, which consists of nothing more than making my man happy. Are we clear on that, Sir?”

Suffice it to say, General Walsh was speechless and his brow was furrowed. I could almost hear his mental gears slowing grinding under a great load. Rather than prolong the awkward pause and the unnecessary sparring between us, however, I deftly pulled the thick, manila folder from my attaché case and plopped it on his desk as I said, “General, I’m not going any place, but if you’re not careful, and contrite I might add, you may be.” At first he stood motionless, but not for long after I opened and spread color picture after color picture before him. He turned beat red and I could detect the hint of a tremor in his hands. A small moan escaped his pursed lips and his eyes closed in shock and disbelief.

The displayed pictures said it all. The accompanying web site and chat room logs only made his lack of leverage worse. It was not my intent to overplay my hand, but I couldn’t resist fingering one incriminating photo in particular where the resolute General was completely submissive in his maid’s costume with partially exposed ruffle panties while affecting a curtsey.

The “pics” that followed were more of the same: the General in a Cheer Leader’s outfit with huge, bulging tits; or stuffed into a too tight, Nurse’s uniform in which he held a catheter device in one hand and a enema bottle in the other; or reveling in a mini-skirted, flight attendant’s attire and a lecherous grin; or demurely sheathed in a lacy bridal gown clutching a bouquet with a coy smile; and best of all, this resolute, masculine, paragon of John Wayne values was draped in a female Marine’s Evening Dress Uniform complete with full-length skirt and a great fitting, bobbed wig. He looked almost “passable,” and instinctively, I complimented him on it. The irony of the situation caused me to laugh. The General didn’t, though. He immediately went into a damage control mode.

“Okay, Colonel, what do you want?”

“You know what I want General. I want you to lay off Torque and me. For starters, I am to stay here in Washington until I retire and Torque is to remain as the Deputy Chief of Staff for Aviation until the Commanding General, Third Marine Air Wing (Forward) billet in Iraq opens up in about four months.”

“And if I don’t agree?”

“You have no choice, Sir. If not, when I leave this office today, these pictures and logs will be e-mailed to every Major Command in the Marine Corps plus every General Officer starting with the Commandant. In addition, I will deliver copies to the Washington Post, New York Times, Navy Times, and Marine Corps Times.”

“If I agree to your terms, Colonel, how do I know you won’t later release this stuff anyway?”

“You don’t, General, and that will keep you on your best behavior with regard to Torque and me.”

“Alright, Colonel. I agree.” His shoulders sagged and there was complete resignation in his voice. It was unconditional surrender. “Before you leave, I’d like to try and offer you an explanation for this, if you’re interested.”

“Yes, I am, General, but it’s not necessary. As you know, because of my own peculiar fate, I am an expert on gender confusion.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you, Colonel. I think you can relate to my situation. Let’s sit down, please.” With that, he ushered me over to the same couch upon which I had sat a year earlier when he had emphatically expressed his concern that my sex change was not in keeping with the good order and discipline of the Marine Corps. What a difference a year makes, I mused.

“Terri,” he began. “From as far back as I can remember, I’ve lived a double life. I was born a male, but I always wanted to be a female. Naturally, I repressed those feelings. Back in the 40’s and 50’s when I grew up, you didn’t talk about these things; but never a day has gone by when I didn’t want to slip into lingerie, a dress or skirt, and sashay off to a beauty parlor to get my nails and hair done. To make a long story short, I lived in this shadowy, twilight world until the inter-net came to be. To my amazement, I found out that there were thousands of people just like me and I took great comfort in that. So, I went from a net surfer or voyeur to an active cross dresser when I began to order women’s apparel on line. To store the stuff, I rent a self-storage unit in Arlington that I’ve made into a mini bedroom with clothes closet, a makeup table, full-length mirror, and couch. Most of these pictures you’ve seen are from makeovers at various transformation salons across the country. I visit them discretely whenever I can.”

“Does your wife know, General?” I asked.

“No, of course not. For obvious reasons it’s a closely held secret. Up until today, I thought only a few fellow cross dressers were privy to my obsession. Needless to say, I have always kept my identity hidden, even from them. It would be a major news story if this leaked out and a tremendous public relations blow for the Marine Corps.”

“Yes, it would,” I answered. “But why have you been so vengeful with regard to Torque and me? My conversion to femininity was certainly beyond my control although I will confess that I am enjoying it thoroughly, and I can see now why some men such as you are driven to cross dress. Women do have more fun in life and I do prefer sisterhood to brotherhood.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Jealously, perhaps. Frustration, too. You see, Colonel Walker, you are the woman I want to be. I guess I wanted you out of the picture so then I wouldn’t be so envious.” He paused, grasping for words to convey his complex thoughts. Finally, he continued, “I really am sorry for how I have handled your situation. Will you please accept my apology?” As he said this, he took both of my hands in his and clasped them firmly. His sincerity was palpable.

“Yes, General, I will.” Our eyes met and held. Implied between us was that Torque and I were free to pursue our happiness and that the General’s double life would not be exposed. “I’d better be going now,” I continued. “I’m meeting Torque for cocktails and dinner tonight at the Army/Navy Club.” And I did.

We had a great dinner and afterwards a great roll in the hay. As a special treat for Torque, I strapped on a huge dildo that I had recently ordered on line and told him to “Bend over, General, and assume the position.” He did and squealed in delight like a little boy as I rammed it home, again and again.

Three weeks later, Torque and I were married in the Chapel on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland from which we had both graduated in what seemed like lifetimes ago. He was resplendent in his Blue-White Dress Uniform along with his fellow General Officers, eight of which, made an arch of swords for us as we left the Chapel and entered our new life together. General Walsh walked me down the aisle and gave me away. No doubt he vicariously shared my satin and lace and all the rustle and bustle. I hope so, anyway. In any event, confetti reigned and so did the champagne and war stories that I could no longer participate in. So be it! Most of them were bullshit anyway.

I felt ultra sexy in my Versace knock-off wedding gown. Torque promised that he would wear nothing under his white, Dacron trousers but a “hard on,” and he didn’t. I was similarly without inhibitions, that is, no panties covered my Venus parts. In short, I was wet and he was dripping. As a private joke, I ensured that my “dyke” friend and co-conspirator, Jane Mancillas, caught the bridal garter after I subtlety flashed our small, but spirited group of HQMC invitees while removing it. Did Torque and I live happily ever after? No, but we had a good run while it lasted. Semper Fidelis!

EPILOGUE

MASTER GUNNERY SERGEANT JANE MANCILLAS: retired as the Executive Secretary for the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps two years later with little fanfare. She didn’t need a gala sendoff, not with her insider and cynical knowledge of how Washington, D. C., worked. The Corps awarded her a Meritorious Service Medal (her third) and General Walsh said all the right things at her retirement ceremony in his office. Later that evening, her friends at the Pink Slipper threw her a wingding that was memorable in all aspects and included a panties and bra-wrestling competition in a huge tub of whipped cream.

Not one to waste time, she immediately founded her own computer consulting company, Data Blush, with emphasis on data base protection. In rapid order, her firm took off, and her clients soon numbered some of the Capital’s heaviest hitters. She is in much demand. In her spare time, she holds court at the Pink Slipper where she is now a co-owner.

GENERAL KEN WALSH: retired shortly after Master Gunnery Sergeant Mancillas. His outdoor retirement ceremony had all the ruffles and flourishes befitting a General Officer. Everyone from the Secretary of Defense on down was there. It was a grand occasion as he walked off into the sunset to launch a new career that was considerably different from his 34 years in the Marine Corps, where he had been one of the few “MIG Masters” during the Vietnam War. (While flying an exchange tour with the Air Force out of Ubon, Thailand, he had bagged a MIG-21 on one of the legendary Robin Olds’ fighter sweeps near Phuc Yen, North Vietnam. In doing so, he became only one of four Marine pilots to record confirmed MIG kills during that long war.)

For starters, he and his wife, Alice, settled quietly in a Georgetown town house and avoided the public eye and virtually all-social events. Shortly thereafter, they separated amicably, and he moved into an apartment in NW Washington where his life took an explosive turn like a confined river busting its artificial channeling and resuming its natural course. He began to dress and live as a woman full time as part of the Benjamin Standards known as the Real Life Test, which is a requirement for sexual reassignment surgery (SRS). It was very hush-hush and was handled well by all those intimate to it.

After his 12 month test, which he claimed was one of most exhilarating experiences of his life, Ken Walsh, age 57, underwent SRS in Thailand and came back as Kendra Walsh, a passable, matronly, middle-aged lady of impeccable dress and deportment. Like many transsexuals, at times her voice did not always match her appearance, and her shoulders were a little too broad, but that was overlooked by her exuberance and mastered femininity. This was one happy lady!

BRIGADIER GENERAL ROBERT “TORQUE” HANSON: never received his second star, although he was certainly on track for it. Torque left HQMC shortly after his marriage to Lieutenant Colonel Terri Walker for a plum, combat assignment as the Commanding General, Third Marine Air Wing (Forward) at Al Asad Airbase, Iraq. It was his third trip to the “Sand Box.” It would also be his last. Two months into his tour, he was killed when a CH-53E that he was co-piloting crashed as the result of enemy small arms fire during a re-supply mission in a supposedly secure landing zone. So much for the success of the Administration’s surge! His wife, Terri, took the news stoically, but not without acute pain. She wore her black widow clothes including a veiled hat with dignity and poise at Torque’s interment in Arlington National Cemetery. Outwardly she was brave and resolute. Inwardly, she was in a state of torment. Too much had happened to her in too short a period of time. She wondered if the gods would ever cease toying with her?

LIEUTENANT COLONEL TERRI WALKER: retired from the Marine Corps as soon as she reached the 20-year mark. Her last assignment was as an Aide-de-Camp to General Ken Walsh, her one-time foe and now, good friend, protector, and mentor. His counseling during the grief-filled days following Torque’s death did much to help her keep her sanity.

Initially, she became Jane’s partner at the Pink Slipper. Subsequently, at Jane’s urging, Terri became the Director of Operations for Data Blush. There was a steep learning curve, but Jane taught her the necessities, and Terri was a rapt pupil. Soon Terri was off and running and sporting the professional, business look attired in sleek skirt suits, chic heels, understated and expensive accessories, and luxurious lingerie that made her feel oh-so-good. Not surprisingly, she continued her friendship with Kendra Walsh and it wasn’t long before Kendra was appointed Director of Human Resources for Data Blush, a position for which she was uniquely qualified.

Love reared its lovely head one more time as Jane and Terri made a quick trip to San Francisco to take advantage of that location’s relaxed same-sex marriage laws. They honey mooned at the Marine’s Memorial Club, naturally, downtown near Union Square. Her cactus flower had come into full bloom. The gods had turned their attention elsewhere.

She and Jane annually attend the Marine Corps Ball at HQMC. In fact, their company, Data Blush, underwrites a portion of it and always purchases at least two corporate tables in support of the event. Last year, the former General Ken Walsh, now known as Ms. Kendra Walsh, was hostess at one of the tables while Master Gunnery Sergeant Mancillas, USMC (Retired) did the honors at the other one. Lieutenant Colonel Terri Walker, USMC (Retired) flitted back and forth between the two in her Gucci gown and Manolo Blaynicks and enjoyed the evening tremendously. All’s well that ends well, and I think that under the circumstances, this tale did.

FINIS

Author’s note: This is a work of fiction and fantasy. References to the Iraq/Afghanistan Wars and Marine Corps Aviation in general as well as to Headquarters Marine Corps (HQMC) and the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps in particular were done for story background. There is no actual resemblance to real persons or factual happenings. These characters and events took flight solely in the “theater of my imagination.” There they will remain. Suffice it to say, I have nothing but the utmost admiration and respect for Marine Aviation and its employment in the Mid-East on behalf of our National Interests.

Crossdressed and Trapped in a Burning Building

By Ginger Collins

My name is Gil Collins. Hmm, that’s not true, not anymore. But before I get ahead of myself, let me go back a few months when it used to be, and I was a successful San Francisco lawyer with a growing list of well heeled clients. My small office, consisting of my secretary, Linda, a paralegal, Gloria, and me, was in a converted, former warehouse on Sansome St, downtown, near the Embarcadero. We rented space on the top or fourth floor. I kept a lean office staff for cost reasons. Thus, whenever I needed help, I outsourced specifics on a case-by-case basis.

Another reason for my lean staff was that I was a closet transvestite, who frequently spent a lot of time en femme at the office, when I was working alone after hours and on weekends. Fewer persons meant less interruptions and less chance of discovery of my alternate lifestyle.

In this regard, my personal office had a specially designed and installed annex with a large wardrobe closet to which I had the only key as well as a complete bathroom that included a makeup table, full-length mirrors and great lighting. Suffice it to say, my annex was like an actress’s dressing room lifted right out of a Hollywood movie studio, which it had been. $200 dollar-an-hour lawyers who are on the rise can do that.

Typically, once my secretary, Linda, and my paralegal, Gloria, were both gone for the day, like Clark Kent ripping off his suit to expose his Superman tights, I would carefully exchange my business-suit jacket and pants for something far more preferable like a light blue, Vera Wang, delicate-lace dress with a V-neckline and princess seams. Naturally, I would color co-ordinate by choosing Dior Deco Platform pumps with a stiletto heel. My wigs were of the finest human hair, and my jewelry was always expensive yet understated. Underpinning me, of course, was soft and luxurious lingerie. Even when my dresses and skirts were lined, a full-length slip was a must. I reveled in them. The rustle and rasp of female clothing touching together was a heavenly rhapsody to me.

More often than not, I wore an open bottom girdle with suspended stockings vice pantyhose. I loved the openness and sensuous comfort that the former provided. As for makeup, I was a slave to it and had practiced long and hard at its application. Less is more, I had learned, and my touch was virtually impeccable. So much so that my eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara looked like it had been professionally applied. After completing my temporary transition from Gil Collins to Ginger Collins, euphoria raised my spirits to mountaintop heights and enabled me to perform much better on behalf of my many clients. No wonder I was in such demand and a rising star in the San Francisco legal community.

And so it was on a fateful, summer day in early August when my world profoundly changed. It was a Saturday afternoon and I had gone to the office to work alone on a pending case. Because I felt in a femme fatale mood, I decided to reward myself by dressing down, that is, theatrically, with a gun moll costume that I had bought on line. The ensemble consisted of a black wig styled in a puffed up hairdo, a tight, green and red, stretch nylon dress with a short sleeves, a raised hem, and V-neckline that accentuated my silicone breast forms with their “naughty nipples.” Completing my trashy wardrobe were a pair of five-inch, green sling backs. Contrary to my usual dress code, I wasn’t wearing any of my beloved slips. All that stood between my towering heels and my nether region were black panties, a matching garter belt, and sheer, nude hose. I had applied a few more gobs of makeup to compliment the cheapness of my look, and had applied cane-fire red polish to my own nails vice using press-ons. The result was nothing short of a “B” movie central casting from the 1950’s. I couldn’t get over how authentic I appeared. I was a detailed replication of either a bar girl or a gangster’s moll. You could take your pick. It was all so delicious and I was having great fun vamping to the point where I got careless: I locked myself out of my office!

So here I was in the open hallway or long corridor on the fourth floor of a building with numerous business offices, dressed like a hooker who had seen better days with no place to hide. It was obvious that Mr. Gil Collins, Attorney-at-Law, had a major problem. It only got worse.

First, the smell of smoke hit my nostrils and overrode the potent perfume I had liberally doused over my body. Smoke? That meant fire. Sure enough, wailing sirens in the background got closer and louder. So did voices from somewhere both inside and outside the building. Simultaneously, the building’s fire alarm went off. Its racket was nerve shattering. I went into a full panic mode and began to run for the nearest stairs. Five-inch heels are not conducive to running but I gallantly did my best. I made it down one floor to the third only to be stopped by a huge black cloud of ascending smoke. The stairwell was no longer an option.

About this time, I heard a male voice yell, “Over here, lady and get ready to jump.” He was referring to an end window on the third floor that he had raised. At this point, everything was surreal and dreamlike. I felt him take my hand and guide me to the window. I found myself staring out at a large, accumulated crowd of pedestrians, sightseers, cops, firemen, and paramedics. My lifesaving companion sensed my hesitation and said, “They can’t get a ladder up here. You’re going to have to jump into that net below” With that, he edged me closer to the windowsill. “Come on, lady. Jump. We don’t have much time.” And we didn’t. Flames from the stairwell were starting to engulf the entire third floor. I could feel the heat and fatuously wondered if it was causing my makeup to run. Robot-like, I hiked up my skirt and with one-nylon-clad leg at a time, tentatively positioned myself outboard on the sill and eyed the net or trampoline underneath. It looked miniscule and inadequate, pretty much the way I felt.

The next thing I knew, I was falling through space to the ground. For the record, I didn’t jump; I was pushed. All I can remember before I hit the net was that my wig had departed my head. Great! To a great roar of crowd approval, I was safely caught in the safety device. Then the fun began. There I was wigless, dressed like a trollop with smeared and running makeup, and runs in my hosiery, trying to stand on five-inch pumps, one of which was now missing a heel.
News cameras flashed and recorded. Microphones were thrust in my face. My excited male voice sputtered incoherencies. Someone handed me my wig and I hurriedly plopped it on my head but it was slightly askew. Later when I played the tapes of my rescue, even I had to admit that it was comical. And that’s how I became Ginger Collins.

Since my cover had been publicly blown, I was no longer a rising young man about town. Remembering that the best defense is a good offense, I opted to become a rising young woman about town. For starters, after a week of hiding out in my foot-of-Telegraph Hill apartment, I issued a press release to the effect that I was transgender and would be undergoing Male-to-Female Sexual Reassignment Surgery at the earliest. I also immediately began dressing and living as woman full-time. To my delight, Linda, my secretary, and Gloria, my paralegal, supported me along with the California State Bar Association. So did my clientele. They continue to be well heeled. So am I. Manolo Blahnik’s and Jimmy Choo’s are my favorites. In fact, because of my notoriety, I gained business. In time, all my documents were changed to reflect my new persona, and Ms Ginger Collins soon eclipsed her old self, Mister Gil Collins. Sexual Reassignment Surgery in Thailand a year later sealed the deal.

I know that this story reads like a soap opera, but it’s true. If ever you want a competent, tall, slim, leggy, blond counselor in Gucci skirt-suits and designer pumps to defend your interests, give me a call. I’m in the San Francisco Yellow Pages. Sexual discrimination claims are one of my specialties.

Dad, That's a Beautiful Dress You're Wearing! By Ginger Collins

 
Estrogen had taken possession of her body and testosterone was in frantic retreat, if not final surrender. She had curves, breasts, and luxurious blond hair. Her cheekbones were high and her painted lips were full. Undeniably, there were ever so slight traces of maleness in her, but it actually added to her charm and made her appear exotic or beguiling. She was wearing a coral suit with a long skirt and wrap jacket with Princess seams. Her matching handbag was large and just right. Her pumps were of snake-print design and with dress soles and two-inch heels. This young lady was a class act!

Striking a dramatic model’s pose right out of a 1950’s Vogue magazine, I postured as I thought a Suzi Parker of that glamorous era might. Reflecting back at me was a tall, slender, young sophisticate in a stunning black and white ensemble with beads, embroidery, and rhinestones in a suit with an asymmetrical-front jacket with a hidden front button, princess seams, and cuffed sleeves. The skirt was long with a flat front. A matching hat with a picture brim and a bow along with a companion clutch purse completed the tableau. I smiled one more time, blew myself an air kiss, and frantically began to undress. Time was precious. It’s even more precious when you are a transvestite or cross dresser and your father is due home almost any minute.

With a rapidity born of practice and desperation, I quickly disrobed. The hat came off and went sailing towards the bed. The clutch purse followed. Then, I kicked off my three-inch dress sandals. My suit jacket was next. Thank goodness for only one front button. My skirt was even easier to shed with its elasticized waistband. I pulled the straps of my slip off of my shoulders and it silently fell to the floor around my ankles from which I deftly stepped. I removed my A-cup prostheses. They joined my hat and clutch purse on the bed. Unfastening my three-hook bra with a dexterity of which I was most proud, it became a companion to my discarded slip. Not much was left except for my Open Bottom Girdle, gartered hose, and panties. Well, that wasn’t quite true. I still had my wig to remove along with my makeup and jewelry. As the title of a movie goes, it’s “Different For Girls.”

Gathering all my goodies off the floor and from the bed, I made a beeline for my own bedroom. I barely made it inside as I heard the front door to our apartment open. Suffice it to say, my father’s return provided additional impetus for speed as I ditched my stash under my bed, rushed into the adjoining bathroom, closed the door, and turned the shower on. I was safe, barely. When you lead a double life like this, you don’t get three strikes. Normally, one is out.

Stopping to take a couple of deep breaths, I looked at the image in the mirror above the sink. What I saw was considerably less sophisticated than before. Gazing back at me was a caricature of a woman or maybe it was a caricature of a man dressed as a woman. Whatever it was, it looked bizarre and distorted. My wig was askew, my lipstick was smeared, my chest was flat, and I was wearing a girdle. I probably looked like a female impersonator gone berserk. It was a downer.

About fifteen minutes later, I emerged from my bedroom in my “All American” boy clothes, namely, chinos, a dress shirt without tie, a V-neck sweater, and penny loafers.

“Hi, dad. How’s it going?” I said as casually as I could.

“Good, son. How about you?” He gave me a warm smile. We loved each other a lot. In fact, the death in our immediate family had brought us even closer. I missed my mom. He missed his wife.

“What have you got planned for today?’ he asked.

“Oh, I thought I’d take a walk and then catch a movie. Are you interested?”

“No thanks. I’ve got some reading to catch up on. What time will you be home?”

“About six. Is that okay?”

“Sure, sounds great. What are you going to do for lunch?”

“I’ll grab a sandwich on the way.”

“That sounds like a winner,” he said. As an afterthought, he added, “Don’t forget tonight. Ginny said she be here around seven and that she had something important to tell us.” Ginny was Genevieve, my father’s steady girlfriend. They both had been sending up smoke signals about tying the knot. Maybe tonight was the big announcement. I hoped so. Ginny was a great gal.

“No problem, dad. I’ll be here. Catch you later.” I flashed him a smile and a thumbs up. He returned both as well as a goodbye. Then, I was out the door.

It was a cloudy, overcast day, the kind I like. My kind of San Francisco: misty, mysterious, the scent of salt water in the air, foghorns in the background, cable car bells in the distance. I left Green St. and headed downhill on Jones St. toward the Embarcadero. At any moment I expected Sam Spade to step out of the shadows. He didn’t, but a few moments later, a young woman in her twenties did. Our paths crossed briefly as she got into her car, an old beat-up Volkswagen. She had a bouncy, feminine walk and a pony tail both of which I envied. By no means was she a startling beauty, but she was certainly attractive. I smiled. She did too, but with considerably less wattage. Men and women are programmed this way and a woman can’t be careful enough, especially, when it involves strangers. She acted according to type. Inwardly, I sighed. Why couldn’t I have been born a girl? It wasn’t fair.

I continued to walk. As I did, my thoughts roamed far and wide. Ultimately, though, they came back to my single obsession: I was a male who should have been a female. Pink was my choice of color, not blue. Estrogen, not testosterone, should be what lighted my fire. Life was certainly a struggle, I thought. On a daily basis, I fought a mental battle over my sexual identity with no clear winner.

Fortunately, cross-dressing and surfing transgendered sites on the Internet gave some relief. Obviously, I was not alone. As a matter of fact, it was through the Internet that I had come to be such a skilled and accomplished cross dresser. I had found a transformation salon in the city that catered exclusively to people like me. The only problem was that it was expensive and my forays there were limited. College kids with part-time jobs don’t have a lot of discretionary money. The lady who ran it, a real one I might add, however, took pity on me and threw in a lot of freebies. After a few visits, I had the basics down pat. I was careful not to expand my repertoire beyond her counseling and my closet dressing at home. The stigma of expose was too great.

I reached the Embarcadero and turned right heading east. Breathing deeply, I inhaled the smells and sights of my native town. San Francisco, like my cross-dressing, was part of my DNA. I needed both to live and I was barely 21 years old. When did these love affairs start? In the case of San Francisco, no doubt, it started at my earliest awareness of the city’s indelible presence beyond my crib. In the case of my cross dressing, no doubt, it started when I first became aware of my mother’s presence in panties, bra, and a slip. These seemed like heavenly clothes, the kind angels would wear. My father in his T-shirt and boxer shorts didn’t cut it. This confusion was always there, but I didn’t know how to express it, so I repressed it up to a point.

That point was breeched early on when I was about eight or nine. On a whim one day when my parents were gone, I noticed a slip lying on a chair in their bedroom. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I felt compelled to pick it up and examine it. What a mistake that turned out to be. It was lemon color, soft, flimsy, and exquisitely lavished in lace on the hem and bodice. Incidentally, I didn’t know what a bodice was at that age, but I am sure that you get the picture. Holding this garment in my hands was like an epiphany. I knew that I had to try it on and I did. As soon as I draped it over my quivering body, the fix was in and I was hooked. From slips I progressed to panties, bras, hose, girdles, and so forth right up the apparel chain to where I was today, that is, a completely attired and fashionable cross dresser known only to himself and a sympathetic lady who ran a transformation salon in the downtown south of Market Street. Although I wanted to come out of the closet, my fear of exposure kept me in. I fervently hoped it was not a life sentence, and as events would soon unfold, it wasn’t.

By now, I was hungry, and I hotfooted it up Columbus Avenue in North Beach to a small deli where they made great sandwiches on freshly baked sourdough French bread. After polishing off a house special, a combination of cold cuts, and a decaf Cappuccino, I was ready to resume my excursion. The weather, regrettably, was not cooperating. It started to rain, and rain hard. So much for my walk, I mused. Nor was I that interested in seeing a Robert Redford movie that was getting mixed reviews. Since I was near Green St., I decided to call it a day and head up the hill for home. Here is where things got interesting.

Because my dad sometimes took afternoon naps on weekends, I was extra careful to hold down the noise of my return. As quietly as I could, I unlocked the apartment door, eased it open, entered, and shut it virtually noiseless. From the foyer, it was a short distance to my bedroom, but I decided to peek in the living room in case my dad was there reading or whatnot. He wasn’t. Rather, a strange woman was. She was seated on the couch with her back to me engrossed in a magazine of some kind. Talk about a surreal moment, I felt as if I had just entered the “Twilight Zone.”

“Excuse me, madam,” I said in my best neutral tone while trying to conceal surprise and curiosity. “I’m Rob. Is dad home?”

She replied immediately, “Oh shit.” The voice was familiar. Her magazine snapped shut and she bolted upright. Then she slowly turned to face me. No wonder I had recognized the voice. It was my father in drag. Not that he was easily recognizable. In fact, he came across as a fashionable, middle-aged woman who used her clothes, makeup, and accessories to her best advantage. From a distance or with subdued lighting, he could easily pass. Up close or under strong lighting, he might have a problem. In his own home when discovered by his son, of course, his masquerade was impossible.

I eyed him critically from top to bottom. He was elegantly ensconced in a white chiffon pullover dress with a sheer, open-front jacket with handkerchief sleeves and hem. His hose were a coffee shade and his feet were clad in two or three-inch white, sling back pumps. Long, dangling pearl earrings graced his ear lobes. His wig was expensive and custom tailored, quite fetching. Most impressive was his makeup. Either he had an innate feel for it or he had been subjected to intense schooling. It was skillfully applied. His nails were long and lacquered. Press on acrylics no doubt.

The silence between us was deafening as they say. Each of us was reluctant to speak. Finally, he did. “Rob, I don’t know what to say,” he tentatively began. His eyes reflected great pain and embarrassment.

“Hey, dad, it’s not the end of the world. Take it easy,” I replied. “How about if I mix us a couple of scotch and sodas?” He nodded consent.

In a jiffy, I produced two Glen Fiddichs with a mere splash of soda. Dad took his and sat down in a demure, practiced manner smoothing his dress beneath him. He did it well. His legs were crossed and he sat primly on the edge of the couch with an erect posture. Nervously, he did a hair flip once or twice. I don’t think that he was conscious of it. Slumped in a chair across from him, I loved every minute of his performance. Again, more silence ensued. I broke it by raising my glass and saying, “Cheers.” He returned a tight-lipped smile and raised his glass in return. We slowly sipped our malts and eyed each other. Out of compassion as well as guilt, I broke the impasse first.

“Dad, I understand about cross dressing, so relax, it doesn’t bother me, not in the least. In fact, someone we both know very well is a CD, but you don’t realize it.” With that statement, his artificially shaped eyebrows arched and I had his full attention.

“Who?’ he asked in a voice barely audible.

“I’ll get to that shortly, dad. Trust me,” I cautioned. “I would like to know, though, how long you have been dressing up. Is this something new since mom died or has it been going on for a long time?”

He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and began to explain, “I started when I was a kid back in the forties during the war. My mother was divorced. We lived in a small apartment on Pine St. where we shared a bedroom. From my earliest moments, I was surrounded by femininity. My mother was a beautiful young woman and dressed with style and grace. I particularly remember her under things. They were like something out of a Vargas painting and I loved to watch her sitting in her slip at her makeup table and putting on her war paint. Everything about it was so sensual and inviting. I was attracted to the sights and smells of all the little bottles and compacts and tubes that defined her makeup portfolio. And when she would step into a pair of high-heeled pumps and adjust the seams of her stockings, well, it unleashed powerful, conflicting feelings inside of me. It was inevitable that I began to try her things on which at first were too large for me. Once I did, of course, there was no turning back.”

He paused to collect his thoughts, and then he continued, “Naturally, I got caught. The first time my mom laughed it off as adolescent curiosity and I was not punished nor was I the second time a few weeks later when she caught me again, and in a calm, reasoned manner admonished me to stop. The third time, however, she was ready. She had decided upon a technique known as ‘Petticoat Punishment.’ Unbeknownst to me, she had stocked up on some clothes appropriate for a young girl of nine. In short order at her direction, I soon found myself dressed in panties, a training bra, a slip, a floral print dress with short sleeves and a scoop collar, white anklet sox, and black Mary Jane’s. She painted my fingernails a rich red, applied a matching color to my lips, and just a tinge of rouge to my cheeks. The effect was startling. With the exception of my hair, which was too short, but even that she had curled into a maze of ringlets, I looked quite convincing as a gamine or tomboy. As an afterthought, she positioned a sporty red beret on my head and that pretty much took care of the hair problem. A couple of dabs of cologne were the finishing touches and I had been completely transformed. What kind of punishment is this I thought? I was in heaven until I found out that is how I would be dressed for Thanksgiving Dinner that afternoon at my cousin’s house in the Sunset District. Soon, the entire family clan would know my darkest secret. I started to shake and to cry. I pleaded with my mother not to embarrass me in such a way, but it was too no avail. Off we went to my cousin’s house via Cable Car and a transfer on Market Street to the Taraval Street Car. Suffice it to say, I didn’t see much other than the toes of my brightly polished Mary Janes’s on the way.”

To say that I was the talk of the family get-together is an understatement. The men ridiculed me, the kids shunned me, and the women both kidded and protected me, even my mom. I think she felt sorry for the family furor that my cross dressing had ignited. Remember, this was pre Christine Jorgenson and for the most part, the public perception of cross-dressing was linked to female impersonators. I, as an adolescent male passably decked out in my little girl clothes, was a threat to conventional standards. My uncles were visibly upset. Harsh words floated across the dinning table. Mom and I left early.”

He stopped his narration, held out his glass, and said, “How about a refill, dear?” As soon as the word “dear” had left his mouth, he gasped and put a hand to his mouth as if to close a door. He then went on to say, “I didn’t mean ‘dear’. That slipped out. I think it’s these damn clothes. They take possession of me and it’s all too easy to role-play. Strange as this may seem, I feel serenity rather than humiliation in being exposed by you. Secrets are hard to live with.”

“Coming up, dad,” I said on my way to the kitchen. “Relax. Believe me, I can live with it.” I mixed our drinks.

Upon my return, dad was refreshing his lipstick using a small compact mirror from his purse. He was most adept in his movements. I set our drinks down on the coasters on the coffee table that separated us. Each of us looked at the other and wondered what he was thinking. This was poker at its best.

“How much more do you want to know?” he asked.

“Everything. Let’s get it all out in the open.”

“Okay. I continued to cross dress in the privacy of our apartment on Pine St. There were no more public excursions. My mother became sympathetic and supportive. She taught me almost everything I know about cross-dressing, especially, the use of makeup. I know that I do it well. She also emphasized expensive lingerie. Her rationale was that when a woman’s underpinnings were top notch, she felt good about herself and this was manifested in her outer look. She also emphasized the classic design and to forget fads. They merely come and go. And that’s what I’ve done all these years.”

When he paused to sip his malt, I asked, “How were you able to keep your hobby a secret for so long?” I asked with considerable self-interest.

“Layers of secrecy and lots of luck. Eventually, your luck runs out. That’s what happened today.

“How about mom? Where did she fit in the picture?”

“She accepted it and was most tolerant. We discussed this before we got married. Her only prohibition was that you not be aware of my predilection. Up until today, you weren’t were you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Back in your post natal days, I used to cross dress at home a lot. As soon as I came home, off would come the suit and tie. On would go the peignoir, silk wrap, and mule slippers. At some point, maybe, when you turned three or four, you started to refer to ‘mommy’s slips and daddy’s slips.’ That’s when I went back deep into the closet.”

“Wow, what a story, dad. How about Ginny? Does she know?”

“No, she doesn’t, and I don’t know how to handle it. Her big announcement for this evening has me troubled. I think she may be giving me a marriage ultimatum. I’d commit in a heart beat except I don’t know how to handle this little matter of Veronica.”

“Veronica?”

“Veronica is my femme name. It’s a play on Vernon.”

“Well, dad or Veronica, whichever you prefer, my advice is for you to play it straight, no pun intended, as you always have. You’re a man of honor and you can be a cross dresser of honor. If Ginny really loves you, the silly matter of both of you competing to wear a little black dress shouldn’t be a major obstacle, not at your ages and positions in life. Hold your cards tight, though. Let her make the first move. I’ll back you up.”

“How?”

“I’ll show you. Give me a few minutes, Veronica, I’ll be right back. I smiled conspiratorially at my father and left the room. My heartbeat started to race like a NASCAR engine.

About 15 minutes later, I returned. His drink was empty and he was standing by a window gazing towards the Bay. It was readily obvious that his mother and his wife had schooled him thoroughly in the art of feminine deportment. His stance was as suave as that of a runway model. As he idly fingered his pearl necklace, his every gesture or body movement suggested femaleness. All the little nuances were in place. The bias of his dress was perfect.

“Excuse me, Veronica,” I said as I made my grand entrance into our living room. With as much confidence and theatrical flair as I could muster, I eased into the center of the room on my four-inch black pumps. My clutch purse was exactly that, clutched by my side in dramatic fashion. My picture brim hat was pulled low over my forehead so as to inspire 1930’s George Hurrell black and white photographic effects. I hoped that I looked as glamorous as I felt. The room was quiet except for the rasp and rustle of nylon rubbing gloriously against polyester. After a small pirouette, I announced, “My name is Robin, and I am dying to meet you.”

I looked at my father, also known as Veronica, for his response. It was not slow in coming. He looked incredulous. “Oh my god,” he muttered. He stepped forward to examine me closely. I took it in stride. There was no way that I could be embarrassed since we were both gender outlaws and wore the clothing to prove it. Like father like son or was it like mother like daughter? We would have plenty of time to sort that out.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally commented, “Not bad. You’ve got spunk, girl.”

“Thanks, dad. Coming from you, that means a lot. I would like some help with my makeup, though. I adore yours.”

He laughed. “For starters, go a little easier on the blush,” he said. “Later on, I’ll show you.”

We spent the next hour or so in animated conversation. He wanted to know how I had crossed over. I gave him the details. Naturally, he understood. Our patterns and actions had virtually been identical. There was gaiety in the air as we exchanged confidences about our secret lives. Now, we had at least expanded our respective closets to include our entire apartment. No more frilly stuff had to be hidden under a bed or in a locked piece of luggage. We could let it all hang out like nylons on a bathroom close line. Excitement gave way to euphoria until the subject of Ginny came up. Hmm, what to do? Again, I counseled restraint and to let her make the first move. He agreed. Since it was nearing seven, Ginny’s appointed hour of arrival, we decided it best to change back into boy modes and off we went to remove our apparel of first choice. The big difference this time, however, was that each of us could hang his dress up in his closet as opposed to secreting it away. Effectively immediately, I made the top drawer in my dresser a lingerie drawer. I also envisioned a space for a makeup table. That would be a priority on Robin’s “to do” list.

A few minutes later, we were both back in the living room in drab. As a concession to my newly liberated female self, under my male clothing I was wearing a camisole, panties, and an OBG with gartered hose. Over my hosiery, I was wearing normal sox. I suspected my dad might be similarly attired, but then, maybe not. He still had Ginny to deal with. I had no idea of how she would take to our family’s bizarre preoccupation. Soon enough, I would find out.

Ginny arrived promptly at seven. She swept into the living room with that special touch of female verve and flair that my father and I envied so much. All the appropriate greetings were exchanged. I served drinks. Then, I sat. For now, it was her show.

“Vernon, Rob, I have something to tell you and I’m not quite sure how to break the news,” she began tentatively. My father and I sat in anticipation of a big shoe about to drop. “It involves my son, Eric.”

“Is he in trouble?” my father asked.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Is he gay?” I saucily proffered. Eric was my age, 21, and was supposedly away at school. I hadn’t seen him in over a year.

“No, but you’re getting close.”

“What do you mean, Ginny?” my father enquired gently.

“Well, I hope that you’re ready for this, but about a year ago, Eric confided in me that he wanted a sex change. He told me that this is something that had been gnawing at him from his earliest recollection. He wanted to start gender counseling in preparation for hormone therapy. After a year of living as a woman, it’s called a Real Life Test; he would then be eligible for surgery. At this point, he’s about 10 months into his RLT. Does any of this make sense to you?” she begged.

My father and I exchanged glances of disbelief. This had been a hell-of-a day. My father replied, “As a matter of fact, it does, Ginny, and I can assure you that it doesn’t phase either Rob or me in the least. Isn’t that correct, Rob?”

“You bet, dad.” I couldn’t help grinning broadly as I said that. My father’s facial expression mimicked mine. Ginny was obviously confused at our casual acceptance of her son’s plight. Little did she know. Thank goodness we had let her play the first card. The rest should be a trump.

“Where is Eric now, Ginny?” I asked.

“She, I call him, Erica, is downstairs in the car awaiting your reaction.”

“By all means, Ginny, have her come up. We’d like to see her,” my dad earnestly intoned.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” My dad spoke for the both of us.

Ginny quickly dialed her cell phone and told “Erica, honey” to come up.

Less than five minutes later, “Erica, honey” rang the doorbell. Ginny opened it and they hugged. Hand in hand, they joined us.

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as Erica sauntered in. Taller than her mother and more slender, she was the epitome of what most cross dresser males fantasize about. The hormone therapy had done its job. Estrogen had taken possession of her body and testosterone was in frantic retreat, if not final surrender. She had curves, breasts, and luxurious blond hair. Her cheekbones were high and her painted lips were full. Undeniably, there were ever so slight traces of maleness in her, but it actually added to her charm and made her appear exotic or beguiling. She was wearing a coral suit with a long skirt and wrap jacket with Princess seams. Her matching handbag was large and just right. Her pumps were of snake-print design and with dress soles and two-inch heels. This young lady was a class act!

“Hi, Vernon, Rob. I guess mom has told you all about me.” She smiled and looked at her mother for emotional support. Her voice range was somewhere between soft and husky. It had a decided female ring. I was simultaneously impressed by and envious of her.

“She has indeed, Erica. Please sit down,” my dad invited.

“I don’t know what to say,” was Erica’s reply.

“You don’t have to say anything, my dear,” my dad said. “Believe me when I tell you that Rob and I can relate to gender confusion. Coincidentally, it has been the number one topic between us this afternoon.”

“Why is that, Vernon?” Ginny asked.

“Ginny, the Chinese have a saying to the effect that a picture is worth a thousand words. If you will excuse me for a few moments, I show you a living example of one,” my dad said as he stood up and gave me a wink. He was now going to play his card.

“Rob, kindly entertain Ginny and Erica in my absence. I’ll be back shortly.”

“It will be my pleasure, dad,” I answered, and it was.

Ginny, Erica, and I made small talk as we waited for my father to return. He wasn’t long and when he waltzed back into the living room in all his feminine finery and high heels with his face made up exquisitely, I stood up and proudly said, “ Ladies, may I introduce Veronica?”

Ginny said, “Oh, no.”

Erica said, “Oh, yes.”

I said, “Oh, boy.”

Dad said, “Can you handle this, Ginny? If you can, I would like for you to marry me. What you see is what you’ll get. I’m a cross dresser. It’s a complicated issue and it requires tact and understanding on both our parts. I promise that I will never embarrass you or bring shame or dishonor to our relationship, but you need to know that Veronica is an integral part of me and she needs attention and loving tender care as do all God’s creatures.”

“Yes, Vernon or Veronica, I can handle it,” Ginny said as she took his hands in hers and squeezed them. “I have learned a lot from Erica.”

“There’s one other thing, Ginny,” I piped in. I figured now was the time to let it all hang out.

“What’s that?”

“You might as well know, I also like to walk on the wild side in heels and hose. You might say that like nylons, it runs in our families.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, shrugged, and simply exclaimed, “I give up. Whatever!”

Erica nodded knowingly, wet her lips, and said, “Cool.”
 
 
EPILOGUE
 
My dad, Veronica, married Ginny in a simple Justice of the Peace ceremony at the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito two weeks later. I was the best man. Erica was the bridesmaid. Champagne flowed. So did emotions. It was very confusing, but so is life. My dad spends about half his time as Vernon and the other half as Veronica. After many depressed years, he is deliriously contented. What more can I say?

Ginny is the perfect companion for my dad. She knows that the way to his heart is through Victoria’s Secret and One Hanes Place. Fair enough! She frequently buys him little bon motes from each and enjoys his exuberant reaction. It’s a cheap price to pay.

Erica underwent her sexual reassignment surgery as scheduled. Subsequently, she attended and graduated suma cum laude from the University of Southern California’s School for Communications and Media Relations. She is now a talking head for a Major TV Network and appears regularly on their evening news. In keeping with their polices, she is a strident anti-gay and anti-lesbian mouthpiece. The irony is not lost upon us.

As for me, well, I am as confused as ever although a lot happier. I have my own apartment now and two complete wardrobes, one for Rob and a much larger one for Robin. The City of St. Francis is a great town for those of the transgender persuasion as I have found out. Robin loves it and is most active within that community. My lifestyle alternates between Mars and Venus. There is no in between. Venus clearly has the upper hand and I have begun counseling for a MTF rendezvous under a surgeon’s knife.
 

By Ginger Collins

The date was December 6, 1941, a busy night at Finocchio’s, San Francisco’s premier transvestite club, and I had just caught their Saturday, 10:00 p.m. revue. As was usually the case, the showgirls were mingling among the crowd, corks were popping, dignity was dropping, gaiety was in the air, servicemen, mostly sailors, were mildly raucous, and male-to-male pickups in the audience were in full swing, albeit with good taste and well defined house decorum. And for the record, Joe and Marjorie Finocchio, the owners, had high standards. To perform there, you just couldn’t be a “bearded lady or a guy in a dress. No way! You had to be beautiful, very passable, and quite convincing in your impersonation. Your makeup, gowns, mannerisms, and attitude had to pass a nightly muster or your gig came to an abrupt halt. Moreover, you couldn’t enter or leave the club in drag, so backstage dressing rooms were a beehive of activity at openings and closings. This was also long before the days of lip-syncing came into vogue. You sang and entertained in your own voice. These impersonators had to have determination as well as talent. Such Finocchio headliners as Walter Hart (Sophie Tucker) and Lester (Lestre) LaMonte raised the art of female mimicry to new highs. Oh by the way, my name is Ginger and I’m a biological woman and a regular Finocchio’s patron.

Homosexuals or “queers” as they were rudely called back then were not my main dish; however, female impersonators as appetizers were tempting morsels to me. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was the ever-so-slight Lesbos trait I harbored or perhaps it had to do with the fact that as a woman, I appreciated the time and effort it took to transform these entertainers from ordinary looking guys to gorgeous gals. Thus, the sight of these drag queens mincing about in their heels, squeezed into tight gowns, sporting elaborate hairdos, and talking in falsetto had an unnerving effect on me, especially, when I fantasized about their flaccid, tucked-away penises springing rock hard from their silk, lace-fringed panties, and invading either my salivating mouth or my lubricated vagina.

I liked them all, particularly, Shirley Rogers or Johnny Rogers as he was known in his drab mode. Shirley was at my table and had his hand discreetly slipped up underneath my dress where he was fingering my crotch. Later, when I got him home, I would return the favor. You see, Johnny in addition to being Shirley, a star attraction at Finocchio’s at night, was my daytime chauffer. We each had the best of both fantasy worlds. He was a male who liked to dress as a woman, but screwed like a man, and I was a woman with a predilection for effeminate men who were well hung.

Normally, I stayed until closing, chatting with the “girls” or exchanging beauty tips and risqué jokes, but not tonight. Urgent business was calling and I needed to be on my way. So I feigned monthly female sickness to snickers and winks from Sophie, Lestre, and Shirley and departed amidst multiple hugs and farewells. Marjorie Finocchio came over to bid me adieu. Her husband, Joe, was busy with a beverage problem at the bar.

Since it was only a few blocks away on Montgomery St., I was soon at my destination, the “Copy Cat Cafe,” the highly successful, bohemian nightclub that my husband and I owned along with a silent partner. A private entrance allowed me to enter unseen and I moved swiftly into our office or inner sanctum, as we liked to call it. The man sitting at the center desk was counting money, heaps of it, and was so absorbed in the details that he was unaware of my presence.

I repeatedly tapped a long and exquisitely manicured nail against a thick, oak chair and finally he looked up. When he did, the blasts from my .22 caliber pistol ripped through the quietness of the night like a battleship firing its 14-inch guns. I’m not an authority on naval guns, although my late husband was, namely the son-of-a-bitch I had just killed. I had to laugh: as a former USS Arizona Gunners Mate in the late 1920’s, he would have appreciated the irony. Anyway, I could smell the gunpowder residue from the two shots that I had just triggered. Also, the unmistakable odor from booze and cigarettes lay heavily in the air like a thick San Francisco fog. I wanted to open the windows, but there were none. Instead, I popped some Sen-Sen breath fresheners.

My first shot had missed and was no doubt lodged in the sound-proof-office wall where forensic experts would later find it. So what? My gun was unregistered and I had prepared an unshakable alibi and it was already in motion. My second shot was resting somewhere in his empty skull after penetrating his left eye. With only one good eye, his right, his death mask looked like it was winking at me.

In case his departed spirit on its way to hell was still lingering about, I gave his cadaver the “finger” and kicked his corpse with the heel of my left pump. Then, I dropped my petite weapon into my clutch purse where it joined other essentials, such as lipstick, a powder compact, keys, ID, $1,000 in “Mad Money,” and an emergency Kotex. Immediately, thereafter, I was out the camouflaged exit that only three of us knew existed. Make that two since “Shorty,” my six-foot-five, former spouse, was no longer with us. Now we were down to just Jake and me. And that wouldn’t be for long, only a matter of hours. Poor Jake, he was going to find out how silent a silent partner can be!

It was raining and the streets were wet and I was chilled. Skimpy dresses will do that to you, especially those wherein a lot of cleavage is exposed. The expression, “Cold As a Witches’ Tit,” suddenly made sense to me. By nature, I’m a size 4. By vanity, I squeeze myself into a size 3. That’s not much protection from the elements.

The click-clack of my designer shoes on the pavement sounded like a herd of Clydesdales on display or a pursuit of me by syncopated demons. Thus, I was almost delirious when I reached my stylish, 1940 Lincoln Continental. Time was of the essence. I still had to kill Jake at his home in Sausalito and make it back to my Russian Hill apartment before dawn in order to play the distraught wife when I reported my husband as missing to the SFPD.

Besides, all this drama was making me horny and I wanted to hurry home and take a luxurious bubble bath with Shirley, who would be waiting for me. Typically, we would gently soap each other, sensuously rinse together, dry one another with coarse, linen towels, and liberally powder each other with huge puffs laden with heavenly scents. By then, he would be blue-steel hard and I would be overflowing wet. We would each apply a light dab of our favorite lipsticks and slip into flimsy, diaphanous nightgowns sans panties. The latter would only get in the way. Foreplay would initially dominate. I would lick and he would finger. Both of us would nuzzle and suck. Then, just before a mutual, climatic crescendo was reached, he would stick his “hammer” inside me and nail me to the bed where we would orgasm in unison. The thought of this was delicious and I could hardly wait, but first, I had to attend to Jake in Sausalito! I checked my diamond-encrusted Rolex. It was now a few minutes after midnight on the morning of Sunday, December 7, 1941.

EPILOQUE

JAKE didn’t last the night. Within and hour and a half of hitting the floor starter on her Lincoln Continental, Ginger had made it across the Golden Gate Bridge and back and in between had dispatched her former silent partner to eternity with another unregistered .22 caliber weapon. There, he and her bastard of former husband, Shorty, could commiserate on how they had become “Satan’s Angels.” Thank goodness for the thriving illicit gun market in San Francisco’s Chinatown. It certainly beat divorce and partnership litigation proceedings.

SHIRLEY continued to be a headliner at Finocchio’s and with Ginger for the next eleven months until in order to avoid being drafted into the Army, he enlisted in the Navy in November 1942. Subsequently, he went to Boot Camp at San Diego, later trained as a Yeoman, and became a Chaplain’s Assistant at nearby Naval Air Station North Island. Shirley and Ginger stayed in touch, but their relationship was never the same. His dormant homosexuality surfaced among all those “glorious” sailors as he enthusiastically described them to her in a letter, and Ginger was soon a sister-like acquaintance rather than a passionate lover.

He served his Country and his Navy well, however. As fate would have it, his Chaplain boss, a Navy Commander, received orders to the USS Indianapolis, a premier Cruiser in the Pacific Fleet, and he dragged a reluctant Shirley with him. Unfortunately, on July 26, 1945, a Japanese submarine sank the Indianapolis in the Philippine Sea. Shirley made it safely over the side and into one of the few rafts. Later, he heroically gave up his space to a severely injured shipmate (a lover?) floating nearby and traded places with him in the shark-infested waters. Shortly, thereafter, he disappeared and was posthumously awarded the Silver Star.

FINOCCHIO’S boomed during the war years and well into the tail end of the 20th Century. A San Francisco landmark, its program proudly proclaimed, “The most interesting women are not women at all. They are Finocchio’s accomplished female impersonators.” And they were, especially, Shirley. Sadly, time took its toll and cabaret productions and the sight of men in dresses, particularly, in San Francisco were no longer a novelty or an exotic experience. Transvestites or cross dressers were out of the closet and on the streets and in the workplace. People no longer paid money to see them, and on November 27, 1999, Eve Finocchio, Joe’s widow, closed its doors for the final time.

GINGER prospered with Shorty, her husband, and Jake, their mutual silent partner, out of the way. The former was physically abusive to her and the latter was skimming profits from her. (Interestingly, neither murder was ever solved or connected.) She did miss Shirley and his magical eight-inches, though, and never found a suitable replacement among the Finocchio crowd. Ever creative, she decided that if she couldn’t find an effeminate man to meet her sexual needs, she’d find a masculine woman, and she did.

When US Navy Wave (Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service) Aerographer’s Mate 3rd Class Jill Jensen, stationed at Naval Air Station Moffett Field, 35 miles south of San Francisco, walked into Ginger’s life in early 1943, she never walked out. In fact, she moved in with Ginger for the rest of her life upon her discharge from the Waves in December of 1945. A tall, muscular, athletic woman with boyish-cut, blond hair, who disdained makeup, didn’t shave her legs, and wore men’s underwear, Jill lighted up Ginger’s landscape like a million-watt flare. Moreover, Jill had an enlarged clitoris that when aroused was like a mini penis, not quite enough to penetrate, but more than enough to tantalize. Besides, that’s why dildos and vibrators were invented, both of which they explored and experimented with endlessly.

For the record, Ginger and Jill were at the forefront of mass marketing women’s sexual toys from which they made a sizeable fortune, and retired comfortably in the late 1960’s. Icons among the San Francisco lesbian community, they were charter members of “Dykes on Bikes” and things should have ended on a blissful note. Unfortunately, they didn’t. Jill was viciously beaten to death on a deserted San Francisco street near their home on lower Telegraph Hill in what appeared to have been an unsolved hate crime in 1979. She was 58 years old. Ginger died one year later at age 59 from nothing more than a broken heart since there was no logical medical reason for her early expiration.

The commingled cremated ashes of Ginger and Jill were spread at Ginger’s request on the grounds of the “Portals of the Past,” a monument to the 1906 earthquake located in Golden Gate Park. In a sense, the morality books were balanced, now: Shorty and Jake on one side of the ledger; Jill and Ginger on the opposite. As we know, love may be a “many splendored thing,” but it’s highly complicated, ephemeral, and in some cases deadly.

Finis

“It is in our idleness, our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes makes it way to the surface.” ---Virginia Woolf (Between the Acts) Sis Boom Bah by Ginger Collins Copyright © 2009 Ginger Collins

The next thing I knew, it was morning, the sun was shinning, and the view from my bedroom window confirmed that my neighborhood had returned to normal after its strange disappearance of last night. As I took stock of my bedroom furnishings and carefully examined myself in the mirror, however, things were decidedly different. Shock, surprise, and joy welled within me as I realized that my life style had literally changed overnight. Suffice it to say, my longstanding prayers had been answered, and I knew that I had better tell my mom, pronto!

“Mother,” I called out as I partially opened my bedroom door just behind the kitchen.

“Yes, dear,” came her cheerful reply as she prepared our Saturday morning breakfast.

“You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve got something to tell you,” I continued.

“What’s that?” she asked in a somewhat bored voice of a mother who has heard tall tales before from her 17-year-old son.

“I’m a girl, now” I answered in a singsong voice.

“Oh, how nice, honey! But don’t let your father hear you talking like that. You know how it upsets him so,” she cautioned. Her warning was most appropriate. My Irish father was a highly conservative SFPD officer, a zealous right-wing activist, and a NRA member. Moreover, I vividly remembered the vicious belt whipping I had taken from him once when he caught me playing dress up in my mother’s clothes. His near-mad epithets of “fairy,” “fag,” and “queer” still rang in my ears.

“Mother, I’m serious,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen. And I was. “See for yourself,” I challenged her.

“Kevin, get out of that nightgown right now,” she commanded. “If your father catches you like that, again, there will be hell to pay.” After a slight pause, and a double take, she added, “And what have you done to your hair? It’s lighter, longer, and more fluffy.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, mother. I really have become a girl. It’s not an illusion.” My tone varied between sarcasm and incredulity at my new and unexplained circumstance. To emphasize my point, I shrugged the shoulder straps of my Aqua-colored-sleeveless gown off, let them fall to my waist, and exposed the upper half of my torso. In doing so, my two pert, A-cup breasts with youthful pink nipples were presented for my mother’s inspection.

“Feel them, mother. They’re real,” I invited.

She did. “Oh, my goodness,” was her immediate reaction, quickly followed by, “Let me see the rest.” Her voice was hushed, almost breathless.

“Yes, mother,” I answered compliantly and let my gown fall silently to the floor. Next, I nimbly stepped out of my matching panties and exposed my Venus Mound to her with its downy pubic hair and unmistakable vertical slit. My mother’s eyes widened as she could see that this was the “real deal.” There was no need to touch it. All she could do was shake her head in amazement or disbelief, probably both. This was followed by a hurried Sign of the Cross.

Then she counseled, “I can’t begin to explain or understand the supernatural, dear, but you’d best get dressed. Your father will be home soon.” She paused. “It’s going to make for interesting breakfast conversation, though, isn’t it?” With that she gave me a wan smile.

“Yes, mother, it is,” I agreed as I picked up my nightwear as decorously as I could and left the kitchen. Just before I closed my bedroom door, I said, “By the way, I may have some questions about certain girl things, if you know what I mean?”

“I’ll be here, dear. That’s what mothers are for, regardless of whether they have a son or daughter. Now, get dressed. God bless!” she reassured me. I fervently hoped so.

Adjusting to my new room décor did not take long. It was a welcome change. Gone were the planes, trains, and gun models that my father had imposed upon me. In their place were miniature figurines, some stuffed animals, cheerleader paraphernalia, and various female accoutrements. About all that remained to remind me of my previous life as a male high-school senior was a poster of Ted Williams swinging gracefully at a pitch in Fenway Park. Apparently, the “Splendid Splinter” transcended sexual orientation and for that reason, he was still here.

I opened a dresser drawer and to my delight, instead of my usual supply of white cotton T-shirts and jockey shorts, I was staring at an assortment of colorful polyester panties and bras. Whew! My knees started to shake. Was this too good to be true? No, the lingerie was real to the touch and I enthusiastically climbed into a pair of light blue panties and hooked up a similarly colored bra with a small ribbon bow at its center between the cups. Then I stood before the mirror and shook my breasts. They jiggled and bounced and I could feel their weight. There would be no more furtive forays into my mother’s closet when my parents were away. From here on, I would be on center stage.

And speaking of center stage, I remembered in a flash that in my new life, I had cheerleader practice in an hour and that I needed to get ready. My best friend, Cynthia, was coming by to pick me up and take us to practice. So in a breeze, I slipped into my uniform’s red brief trunks, matching red pleat skirt, and pulled the blue, long-sleeved shell emblazoned with my high school’s letters over my upper torso. My budding twin mounds peaked gently from my cashmere top like emerging volcanic islands in a distant ocean, hinting of future heights or elevations to come. I quickly arranged my shoulder-length, blond hair into a ponytail and applied some fire engine red lipstick and a touch of blush. I was now ready to romp and tumble for the good old red and blue of St. Aquinas High. The ear-to-ear smile on my face that reflected from my mirror said it all: This sure beat being a boy (Yuk!)

I then waltzed into the kitchen and headed to the breakfast table. My mother inspected me silently with a critical, yet approving eye. That was a good sign. My father was next. He had just gotten off duty and was sitting at the table resplendent in his uniform with its brass buttons and badge. “Come here, little darling,” he bellowed in a friendly tone as he patted his lap for me to sit. “So you’re a Sheila, now, huh?” he exclaimed using the Australian colloquial term for “girl.”

“Yes, daddy. Is that okay?”

“Of course, sweetheart. You were kind of a sissy as a boy. I guess the Almighty realized there had been a mistake and corrected it last night.” He gave me a warm hug. “It will be better this way,” he continued. “No more dropped fly balls in the outfield or strikeouts at home plate for you. No more tears when roughhouse with some of the lads becomes too much for your sensitivities. No more being sent home from scout camp because you are homesick. Yeah, little darling, you’re in your true element, now, Moira,” calling me by the phonetic form of the Irish name, Maire or Mary. ‘Sugar and spice and everything nice.’ “Right?”

I hugged him back in affirmation of my new status, my eyes watered, and I whispered, “Yes, daddy, Yes.”

In my 17 years of being his offspring, I could not remember one time, babyhood an exception, when he and I had been this close or shared intimate affection. Suddenly, he was not the monster perfectionist figure of a Marine Drill Sergeant who constantly intimidated me, but rather, he was a warm, loving, and venerable human being. It was like an epiphany: I could scent his aftershave lotion, I could see faint specks of dandruff on his uniform’s shoulders, and I could even smell the pleasant aroma of brewed coffee laced with a shot of Bushmills Irish whiskey on his breath. It was fun and very daughter like for me to run my polished fingernail hands against the coarseness of his face that was in need of a shave.

“Now, lass, get a move on and eat your breakfast. Cynthia will be here soon. And I certainly don’t want my daughter to be late for practice on the first day of her new life.” With that, he smiled and whisked me off his lap. I gave him a big, wet smack on his cheek as I exited. I could tell that he liked it and I planned a lot more of the same.

Breakfast went by in a blur. The next thing I knew. I was running out the door with my ponytail following me and into Cynthia’s waiting car along with my accessories bag and poms in tow. She was bubbling with enthusiasm. Tommy Richfield, our star, All-City running back at St. Aquinas, was starting to date her. She was literally on “cloud nine.” On our way to the practice field, she did most of the talking and it was filled with typical “girl talk” exclamations. That was fine with me. I just wanted to luxuriate in my recently entered world of total femininity. Thus, I was constantly admiring my nail polish or stealing glances at my bust line or checking my face for blemishes or applying another coat of lipstick. So much so that Cynthia finally stopped me and asked, “Hey, what’s up, Mary? Have you got a hot date tonight?”

“Not yet,” I giggled in reply. “But you never know. And I didn’t.

Cheerleader practice went without a hitch and I was in complete sync with all the precision routines. All the girls were friendly and quite chatty. Boys were very much on our minds, though, because as we did our Sis-Boom-Bah thing on the sidelines, our undefeated varsity football team, the Tigers, with Tommy Richfield leading, was running various drills on the center of the field. I could see that Cynthia was constantly sneaking glances at him and in turn he seemed to be looking at her. I say, “Seemed to be looking at her” with some trepidation because as it turns out he wasn’t ogling her. Guess what? He was checking me out! How do I know? Well, because around 3:30 that afternoon, he called me on my cell phone.

“Hey, Mary,” he began. “Do you know who this is?”

“No, should I?”

“I’m Tommy Richfield.”

“Oh, you’re the jock who dates Cynthia.”

“Naw! We’re just sort of like friends. You know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t. And how did you get my phone number?”

“It really doesn’t matter. The point is that I would like to meet you. I think you’re pretty cute, especially, in that cheerleader rig.”

“What about Cynthia?”

“What about her? We broke up this afternoon.”

“Oh!” That caught my attention.

“I know it’s too late to ask you out tonight for a date, but maybe I could come by your house for just a little while later this evening and we could talk. Kind of feel each other out. Okay?”

“I’ll have to clear it with Cynthia first,” I replied. After a deliberate pause, I said, “I have your number. It’s in my cell phone memory. I’ll call you back if it’s okay. If I don’t call you back, get lost Mr. Richfield.”

“Fair enough, Mary. And I hope you call me. Talk to you later.” Click. The phone went dead. Wow! It was just as complicated being a young girl as it was a guy.

Still, Tommy Richfield was All City. Rumors were ripe that scouts from all the major universities including Stanford, California at Berkeley as well as USC and UCLA were courting him. Even in my former life as a wimpy male, that had not been lost on me. So, I called Cynthia and described Tommy’s phone call to me. Her reaction was one of restrained anger, caution and genuine concern for my well being. “Listen, Mary,” she counseled. “All he wants to do is to get in your pants. Once he does that, he drops you. Believe me, I know. He was in mine last night.” She sniffled and went on, “I’m glad the son-of-a-bitch is out of my life. And for your sake, I hope he doesn’t enter yours.” More sniffles and the sound of Cynthia blowing her nose. Then, “Got to go, now, Moira. Be careful and good luck. Another click. The second I had received in the last 10 minutes.

My left-brain said not to call Tommy Richfield. My right brain insisted I do and I did. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah, babe.”

“Do you still want to drop by my house this evening?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

“Of course. What time?”

“How about seven?”

“It’s a deal. Want me to bring a movie?”

“No. You won’t be here that long, Mr. All City.”

“I bet I will.”

“We’ll see. Don’t be late. I might not be here if you are.” Click. Only this time, I did the clicking.

Fortunately, my parents had a social engagement so I knew that our house would be clear from six to at least ten. That would give me more than enough time to practice my feminine wiles and to see how they measured up. The wildly popular Tommy Richfield would be the perfect opponent. If I could handle him, I could handle anyone.

Without blowing my cover to my parents that I had a boy coming over to see me in a few hours, I had to delay my final dress preparations until they left. Not all my time was wasted, however, as I took a long bubble bath.

This gave me the opportunity to explore my new body with all its curves, bumps, and major attraction, if you know what I mean. Soaping all these parts was a delight, particularly, my nipples. They reacted immediately to the soapy touch and I began to get a pleasant sensation that spread from my toes to my you-know-where. Ever so slowly I probed the outer and then the inner regions of my private area with an index finger. The tingling sensations in my lower body dramatically increased to the point that I knew something major was about to happen. Moreover, by now my nipples were rigid and had almost doubled in size. My finger manipulation of my love triangle went into overdrive. So did my excitement. I knew I couldn’t last much longer, but just as I was about to peak in a glorious orgiastic spasm, there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door followed by my mother’s voice, “Moira, dear. Are you okay? You’ve been in there a long time, sweetheart.”

Suffice it to say, her interruption had the effect of an instant blowout of my masturbatory fantasy. The sexual sensations stopped as if a light switch had been flipped and my nipples beat a hasty retreat to a deflated state. I withdrew my finger so quickly from my crotch that I hit my elbow on the side of the tub with a loud “bang.” It hurt!

“Yes, mom,” I lied in what I hoped was an even tone. “Just getting rid of that grime from cheerleader practice.” I paused briefly. “I’ll be right out. Then I want to do my nails. Would you help me, please? I’ll do yours.”

“Sure, honey. Give me a call when you’re ready.”

“You bet, mom. Thanks.”

About 10 minutes later after I had dried and powered myself, I found myself sitting across from my mom with my hand extended as she shaped and trimmed a cuticle. Each of us was wearing just panties, bra, and a slip. It was a wonderful mother and daughter bonding moment that I never wanted to end. Sigh! 19 fingers later it did.

My parents left home a few minutes before six. That gave me only an hour to pick and choose my evening ensemble and do my face before Tommy’s arrival. I would have liked more time, but you have to play the cards as they lay. So I did. With measured haste, I ran through a string of dresses and skirt/blouse combinations before I finally settled on a white, cotton dress with delicate trim and elbow-length sleeves. White, leather huarache sandals with a sling strap complimented my choice. Minimal makeup, consisting of brushed eyebrows, eyeliner, blush, and lip-gloss defined my facial look.

My only jewelry was a pair of small, gold studs in my pierced ears. Underneath my exterior was a venerable cornucopia of exquisite lingerie. I didn’t think Tommy would get that far, but if he did, he was in for a treat. Black, satin panties with a matching push-up bra, beige pantyhose, and a pink, satin slip adorned with ribbon and lace would greet him. As an afterthought and final line of defense, I climbed into a white, nylon long-leg panty (girdle). According to what other Cheerleaders had confided to me, it was a girl’s best friend when it came to a boy’s frisky fingers. We would see. A dab of perfume in strategic places, a final mirror check (my 100th), and I was ready. The doorbell rang promptly at seven. Tommy was on time. Let the games begin. And they did.

He was wearing his St. Aquinas “Senior Jacket” with his varsity football SA letters proudly on display. A button-down-open-collar shirt that was untucked over his expensive chinos gave him an ultra casual look. So did his adorable cowlick and ingratiating smile. I had heard somewhere about guys who were catnip to women. Tommy was obviously one of them. Maybe, I should have worn two panty girdles and had a chaperone as well for protection? Too late! The fox was inside the chicken coop.

All he said was “Hi, Mary. Boy you look great,” and my resolve dropped. I knew my panties would soon follow, but for decorum’s sake, I pretended that he did not have me overwhelmed. As coolly as I could, I looked him straight in the eyes (They were light blue.) and said, “Good evening.” He looked at me in the following order: tits, crotch, legs, and then, oh yeah, my face. Then he walked past me like I was a zombie and made himself comfortable on the couch.

I joined him at the opposite end sitting primly and found myself breathing more heavily than I cared to admit. My façade lasted all of perhaps 20 seconds. Like an octopus, his arms lashed out and suddenly I was in his smothering embrace. We were soon cheek-to-cheek, mouth-to-mouth, and tongue-to-tongue. Next, his hands were feeling my breasts, and I have to admit, I liked it. Unzip went the back of my dress, and my elbow-length sleeves along with the upper portion of my attire were soon down around my waist. I could tell that Tommy liked my pink slip. He liked it so much that soon, he slid the upper half of it down to my midriff as well. My bra was next. Unsnap, unsnap, and the two small eyelets in the back gave way. It piled on top of the previous two clothing items collecting at my middle section, a major intersection, I mused.

In his spare time when he wasn’t either disrobing me or feeling me up, he guided one of my hands to the fly of his pants. I got the message and undid his buckle and zipper. I could feel this huge bulge in his jockey shorts. I pried them down and out sprung this magnificent prick, the kind I think that artists would want to sculpture. The head of it was leaking a clear fluid. Uh-oh, crunch time!

“Would you like me to kiss it, Tommy?” I asked with feigned innocence knowing full well the answer beforehand.

He moaned and nodded his head.

We disengaged from our embrace and I got ready to go down on him. My own privates were aching with desire and my panties were soaking wet. For a moment, I flashed back to this afternoon when my mother almost caught me masturbating in the tub. It was the same feeling and I knew that I was about to come. I had to hurry. It would be a photo finish with regard to whether or not I could get him in my mouth before I came in my panties. At worst, I hoped for a tie. No dice. Before I could apply my lips or tongue to that divine work of art that awaited me, I shot my load inside my black satin panties, which were buried deep under layers of panty hose, a girdle, a slip, and a dress. They felt sticky and uncomfortable. To top it off, I heard a loud phone ringing incessantly in the background. A phone? What the hell was going on?

As I tried to sort things out, Tommy disappeared. So did the love couch we had been sprawled on. Slowly my senses took a survey of my surroundings. I was splayed on the living room floor of my house, alone, and I wasn’t wearing a white, cotton dress. Instead, I was in a short, red, cocktail dress with black fish-net hose. My blond wig was strewn aside of me along with my 4” fuck-me pumps. An almost three-quarter-empty bottle of Bushmills stared down at me from the top of the coffee table. It had been full earlier. An empty glass turned over on its side was its companion. My panties were cold and messy and the god dam house phone kept ringing. I staggered to my feet, shaking my head in disbelief as I went to answer it. My makeup was caked and I needed a shave. Life can be tough when you are a 45-year-old-bachelor-alcoholic transvestite. To top off my humiliation, I had just had a humongous wet dream after passing out the night before. All I could think of as I picked up the receiver was the last line from The Whiffenpoof Song, “Lord have mercy on such as we. Bah, Bah, Bah.”

The voice on the other end was familiar, jocular, and robust. “Hey, dip shit,” my best friend, Tommy Richfield, bellowed, “Are you going to be ready when Cynthia and I come by to pick you up in about 30 minutes? This is the California/Stanford “Big Game,” asshole, and we need to get their early. We haven’t missed one in over 25 years. Remember?”

“Yeah, Tommy,” I chuckled through a dry mouth. “As a matter of fact, I was just thinking about you and Cynthia.”

“That figures. You were our best man at our wedding, amigo. Hell, you’re family to us. But enough of this sentimentality crap.” He paused to catch his breath. “Man that was some fog in the Sunset last night wasn’t it, Kevin?”

“It sure was, Tommy. See ya soon, partner.” Click. I hung up the phone, wiggled out of my semen-soiled panties, and let them drop unceremoniously to the floor.

What happens when a male, Navy combat pilot, trades in his helmet, flight suit, and flying boots for heels, hose, and a little black dress? Well, this is Andy’s story as personally told to me by her many years later. Whatever Happened To Andy Crewson? By Ginger Collins

Both of us were holding up against the race of time. I reflected, however, that I was becoming a little frumpy or dowdy in my appearance as I approached my 60th birthday. Gravity and middle-age spread had taken their toll. My breasts were sagging, and a panty girdle was a necessity on those rare occasions that we dressed up. Where once I had been a veritable fashion horse, now I was content to while away the hours in slacks, a sweatshirt, and sensible shoes. My salt-and-pepper hair was cut short for minimum maintenance. My only concession to female vanity was lipstick and small, gold studs in my pierced ears. This was a far cry from my days in designer dresses, stiletto heels, lacquered nails, and expensive coiffures. I found myself nodding in the affirmative. Yes, it had been a good life and I was happy to be where I was and run out the clock.

Off in the distance in the rapidly fading blue sky, I could see white-high-altitude-condensation trails carved out by military jets, probably FA-18 aircraft from Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. That immediately brought back a flood of distant memories. I must have reacted. Madeline reached over and squeezed my hand.

I squeezed her hand gently in return and lovingly looked at my companion of 30-plus years. It had been and continued to be quite a relationship that is hard to explain, let alone understand. Passionately in love, we had started out as man and wife. After one year into our marriage and with her full support, I began psychiatric counseling and, subsequently, hormone therapy in preparation for male-to-female sexual reassignment surgery. Two years later I underwent the surgery and legally changed from Andrew to Tiffany, a transsexual. We have remained married and completely devoted to each other. For whatever unfathomable reason, we are as happy together as a lesbian couple as we had been as husband and wife.

“Yes, Tiffy?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing, Maddie. I was just musing about the old days.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe what it would be like again to strap on a helmet, oxygen mask, and G-suit and go bore holes in the sky like those guys.” I pointed up at the wispy contrails.

“How do you know they’re guys? They have female Naval Aviators, now,” she deadpanned. “Perhaps you’ll be recalled.”

I smiled and refilled our wine glasses. We resumed our silence.
Night had fallen, but we continued to sit in the pleasance of darkness, a mild ocean breeze, and twinkling lights that stretched as far as we could see from San Diego to the south and to Oceanside to the north. Despite my best efforts, I started to think about the past and how I had traded pants for dresses. When did my feminine persona really begin? What were its roots? I wasn’t sure.

My earliest remembrance as a child is sitting on my mother’s lap in the kitchen of our San Francisco apartment when I was three or so. The scene is indelibly inscribed in my memory because in it, I am wearing a red pinafore dress with white sox and black patent buckle shoes. There is a ribbon in my curly, blond hair and I have red polish on my fingernails. Was this early display of transvestism my idea or my mother’s?

I sip my wine, enjoy the darkness, and take comfort in the holding of Madeline’s hand. As I do so, another scene from my childhood flashes by from a hidden cranny in my memory. In this one, Joe Moore, a playmate from across the street, and I out of idle curiosity, explore my mother’s lingerie drawer on a summer afternoon and don panties, bras, and slips. We run about the shade-drawn apartment and have a grand time. I was about ten years old. From this moment on, though, I am hooked on full-length slips, lavished in lace. In fact to this day, whenever Madeline is stuck as to what to get me for a birthday or whatever, she usually opts for a luxurious slip or chemise. I am never disappointed.

Madeline is a very sensual woman. She enjoys physical expressions of endearment and we have always had a very active sex life. I wasn’t sure what sex would be like after my surgery, but to my delight, I find it satisfying. Across the years, Madeline instructed me on the use of vibrators, dildos, “G” spots, erogenous zones, and oral sex. Suffice it to say, each of us knows which buttons to press when we make love. In the Miramar darkness, Madeline senses my turn on and leans across to me. Without a word, we kiss each other full on the mouths, exchange competing lipstick tastes, and our tongues play tag with one another. Each of us instinctively feels for the other’s breasts. Four nipples go taut. Soon we are petting hot and heavy and both of us are ready. I don’t want the evening on the lanai to end yet, so I call a truce. We break off. Madeline smiles that impish grin that attracted me to her in the first place. We both lapse into contented silence. It goes unsaid that once we hit our bedroom, a long bout of lovemaking will ensue. But first, I have a trip through the portals of my past.
 
 
CHAPTER 2: AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN
 
 
My reverie begins as I try to puzzle out the how and why of my journey from manhood to womanhood. In retrospect, I really didn’t cross dress that much in high school or college. The opportunity wasn’t there. Infrequently, when I really felt the need and my sister was away at a friend’s house, I would put on one of her outfits complete with under garments and prance around an empty apartment. Not for long, I might add. Invariably, all that soft and delicate fabric rubbing against me would produce an erection that was all too soon followed by an uncommanded ejaculation. The first time it happened I was caught so off guard that I made a mess in her panties. Trying desperately to get her dress and slip up and her panties down between a garter belt and high-top hose to free my penis before climax was too much for me. Until I started cross dressing full time, this premature excitability was always a problem for me.

Somewhere in my junior year in college, I fell in love with the romance of flight, specifically, I wanted to be a Navy pilot. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it was because of the strong Navy presence in the Bay Area, especially, Alameda Naval Air Station. Anyway, after graduation with a degree in Liberal Arts, I plowed my way through a battery of tests and was accepted as an Aviation Officer Candidate. Then I was on my way to Pensacola for Pre-Flight training. Primary was next at Saufley Field. Then came Basic at Whiting and Carrier Qualification back at Saufley. Because I was a good stick-and-rudder guy, flight grades were not a problem, and I was one of a select few in my class to qualify for jets. For my finale, I was off to Texas for Advanced. Eighteen months after I began, I was designated a Naval Aviator and sent to a Replacement Air Group at Naval Air Station Miramar in Southern California to learn to be a F-8 “Crusader” pilot. The year was 1964 and I was 23 years old.

1964 was a hell-of-a year. This was when the old order of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s dissolved and a massive generational change hit America. Free speech, love, and pot were in. So were long hair, granny glasses, and funky clothes. Crew cuts, Joe College togs, and respect for authority were out. The Beatles, not Britannia, ruled the airwaves.

In the midst of all this, I became a Navy fighter pilot. After four months in replacement training that included familiarization, formation, gunnery, and air combat maneuvering, radar intercepts, in-flight refueling, and day and night (shudder) carrier landings, I was sent to an operational fleet fighter squadron, VF-77, “The Rat Pack.”

Needless to say, the Navy was not a conducive atmosphere in which to cross dress. For almost two years, I had gone without slipping into something soft, slinky, and feminine. I knew I was overdue to cater to my softer side, so I took a week’s leave before reporting aboard to my new squadron and hightailed it home to San Francisco. My sister was currently working for the State Department in England, and I had a hunch she hadn’t taken all of her clothes with her. She hadn’t. At my earliest opportunity, I raided her closet and drawers. For five glorious days and nights I played dress up in a wide variety of lingerie, nighties, sweaters, skirts, blouses, and dresses. I had no experience with makeup so I shied away from that. I didn’t have a wig either, so the best I could do was fashion a scarf around my head into something I thought was stylish. On four of my five nights, I ventured out solo in guy clothes to a famous drag club in North Beach to catch their show. I had to be careful. From my second night on, other regulars started to make passes at me.

On my last night at home, I started to slip into one of my sister’s nightgowns, as was my routine after my mother had gone to bed. Only, she surprised me by coming in to say goodnight after I thought she was asleep. Caught in the act, there I was in pink panties (my favorite color) with my arms extended over my head and about to don a full-length-Empire-waist gown of matching shade when the door quietly opened and my mother came in. It was a tie as to who was more surprised.

“Oh!” she said.

“Oh, Yeah!” I replied.

A long silence hung over us both. We eyed each other. Her gown was yellow.

“I’ll say one thing, dear. Pink looks good on you.”

“Thanks, mom.”

“Maybe we’d better sit down and have a little talk,” she suggested.

“Sure.”

We sat down on the edge of the bed. Almost as if on cue, we each fidgeted and smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in our sleeping wear. She took my hands in hers.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you in female clothes, you know,” she began. “When you were a small, I used to dress you as a little girl until your uncles made me stop. You would have been about four or five then. Do you remember?”

“Only vaguely. Whose idea was it?”

“I’m not sure, Andy, darling. You certainly had a predilection for female things. Perhaps I was trying to humor you. I well remember how you cried and cried when I stopped. We all assumed that you would get over it.”

“I guess I didn’t, huh, mom?”

She smiled sadly and then asked gently, “Would you like to be a woman?”

“I think so…at least when I wear women’s clothes I feel that way. Most of the time I’m too busy to think about it, particularly now that I’m in the Navy. It’s something I control fairly well.”

“You’re not attracted to boys are you?”

“I’m not sure. It gets a little confusing when I dress en femme. I fantasize a lot.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, dear. Please be careful.”

“I will, mom. Don’t worry.”

She patted my hands and said, “You’d better go to sleep, dear. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.” With that, she kissed me. I could tell that she was crying. We hugged each other.

“I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, dear. And whatever you decide is OK with me.”

“Goodnight, mom”

“Goodnight, son.”

The next day, I departed for Miramar and my new life with the “The Rat Pack.” Before I left, my mother gave me a small, scarf-wrapped parcel to take with me. As she handed it to me, she winked, and said, “Just in case dear.” I threw it in my B-4 bag. Later when I opened it, I found it contained my sister’s nightie and panties from the night before, freshly laundered, and a sexy bra.

Like most Navy squadrons of that era, VF-77 was loaded with guys who drank a lot, smoked too much, chased women, and took pride in their airmanship. Although I wasn’t big on the smoking and drinking aspects of squadron social life, and had some confusion with regard to my masculinity, my flying skills more than compensated for the former. I was soon accepted as a “Rat” albeit a quiet one.

The squadron, recently activated, was preparing for a Western Pacific (West Pac) deployment, and our daily routine was pretty standard. Usually during the week, I’d fly one training flight in the morning and one in the afternoon. Weekends were normally free. Friday and Saturday nights were spent at parties or bar hopping, the purpose of which was to get laid. I never did, although I would pretend that I did and join in the ready room discussions on the following Monday with the other pilots about how I had porked some broad with big tits that I had just picked up. And then I met Madeline…

It was a few months before we were ready to embark for a six-month carrier cruise aboard USS SHILOH (CVA-35) to West Pac. The tragedy known as Vietnam was just starting to unfold. “The Rat Pack” would be there at the beginning. In typical weekend fashion, the squadron was over at a squadron mate’s house on a Saturday evening, getting drunk and horny, and talking flying. It was all very macho with lots of braggadocio. In the midst of all the boasting and swaggering, one new girl stood out. She obviously didn’t belong there. A friend of a friend, she had obviously made a mistake in accepting an invitation to this gaggle. She looked bored and pissed off. I was immediately attracted to her, one outsider to another. I sauntered over to her as casually as I could.

For lack of anything better, I said, “Hi! You don’t look like you’re having a lot of fun.”

“You got that right, sailor. Can you get me the fuck out of here? The bullshit is ankle deep.”

“Let’s go,” I hastily replied. And off we went.

She told me she lived in San Diego and we headed that way. My attempts at small talk got me nowhere. As we got closer to the city, she occasionally gave me curt directions. By the time we arrived at her address, I was resigned to having flamed out. You can imagine my surprise when as I stopped the car she turned to face me and asked, “Do you want to come in?” Boy did I ever although I wasn’t sure why!

Once inside her small apartment, she didn’t ask me what I wanted to drink. She just made coffee. As she served it, I sensed that a lot of her hostility had waned. We said nothing as we looked at each other. I liked what I saw. She was tall, slender, attractive as opposed to beautiful, and conveyed an artistic air. I made the immediate judgment that she read a lot. I soon found out what she thought of me.

“You’re different,” she remarked.

“I’m a ‘Rat’.”

“But you’re not a member of the ‘Pack’,” she observed. And I really wasn’t despite how much I enjoyed the flying.

We began to talk. I found out that she was a Drama Major who liked to draw and paint. She found out I that I was an English Literature Major who liked to play Berlin, Gershwin, and Porter tunes on the piano. Our talk continued. It turned out that politically, we were both Roosevelt New Dealers from a bygone era. Pretty soon we were telling each other confidences that you don’t normally reveal to strangers. About three or four hours later we ended up in bed together. It was my first time with a woman and I was rather clumsy. She was patient.

In between our couplings, intimate revelations were exchanged. Although I didn’t come right out and say it, I hinted at my liking for all things feminine and told her how I had dressed up as a little girl when I was very young. She found that amusing and said, “More men should wear pinafores and ribbons in their hair when they’re growing up. Maybe that way later on, they wouldn’t be such pigs.” If you only knew, I thought as I mounted her and we went at it again. Her patience paid off handsomely.
 
 
CHAPTER 3: OUT OF THE CLOSET
 
 
With less than 30 days to go before deployment, everything in my life was happening at a quickened pace. By day I flew or attended briefings or lectures. At night I was always with Madeline. In fact, I had moved my gear out of the BOQ (Bachelor Officers Quarters) and into her apartment. She made room for my things in one of her dressers and I made myself at home. I didn’t know how much at home until I returned one afternoon after an early secure. We were planning to barbeque steaks on the patio and drink some mellow Chianti.

As soon as I walked in the door, I detected something different. Madeline was a little too polite or perhaps too clever, I wasn’t sure which. I tried to figure it out but couldn’t. We went through the motions of having a pleasant cookout supper. Both of us were glad when it was over. It was merely a prelude to something else. That’s when she told me she had a surprise for me. She left the table to get it. I swirled the after-dinner scotch idly in my glass and wondered what it was. I shortly found out.

With a soft “plop,” Madeline dropped a familiar looking parcel in front of me, only the scarf was no longer tied, and a trio of matching pink panties, bra, and nightgown were arrayed before me. She victoriously crossed her arms and stood before me. Her stance said it all, “Gottcha.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, but go ahead and try to explain,” she commanded. “And by the way, a Channel scarf wrapped around women’s underwear among my boyfriend’s clothing invariably catches my attention.”

My face was beet red. Admittedly, I wasn’t much of an ass-kicking male, but heretofore, only my mother knew of my cross-dressing. Zap! I had been “outed.” The best response that I could muster under the circumstances was, “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me,” she challenged.

“OK, I will,” I sighed. “These are mine; well actually, they belong to my sister. I borrowed them from her without her knowledge. From time to time, I feel a need to wear women’s clothes. I tried to give you a heads up the first night we met and I told you I used to dress in pinafores, ribbons, and ‘Mary Janes’ as a toddler. Does this make any sense?”

“Maybe.” A little of the sarcasm was out of her voice. “Then what do you do?”

“What do you mean?” I wasn’t sure where she was taking the conversation.

“You know. After you slip into these little delicates, then what? Do you jack off?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

“Come on,” I pleaded. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Oh, no. You don’t get off the hook that easy. You’re going to perform your little charade for me.” With that she picked up the underclothes and opened the patio door. “Into the bedroom, sweetie, unless you’d prefer to change out here and do your thing. I’m sure that our neighbors would enjoy the show.”

Resigned to my fate, I preceded her into the bedroom. She left me standing in the center and sat down at her vanity table with the chair turned towards me like a spectator at a stage show. Mischievousness was spread all over her face.

“Start stripping,” she ordered.

Reluctantly, I did. When I was completely naked, she tossed me the high-cut-nylon panties and I stepped into them. The bra came flying at me next. Much to her delight and giggling, I expertly strapped it on.

“Hey!” she exclaimed. “Cinderella needs some tits.” Out of seemingly nowhere, she filled my bra cups with some hose. With great fanfare, she handed me the nightgown as she dramatically intoned, “Ta Da!” I shrugged, held it above my head, kneaded my arms through the sleeves and shoulders, and let it fall into place.

In spite of my best efforts to the contrary, I could feel the beginning of an erection in the making. A slip, chemise, or nightgown would forever be my Achilles heel. My penis started to gorge and quickly came to full mast. I never felt so vulnerable in my life as my most intimate feelings had just been exposed.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Finish the job.”

“I need a towel.”

“No problem.” She got one from the bathroom and handed it to me. I lay down on her bed on my back, hiked the gown up over my bra to expose my belly, and pulled my panties down and off. The towel was within easy reach. Then with my panties clutched in my left hand and my penis in my right, I began to masturbate.

“Are you fantasizing that you’re a woman having sex?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of a guy is screwing you?”

“A big stud, bald, muscular, lots of body hair, and a bushy mustache. All the things I’m not.”

“Why do you hold on to your panties?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I pretend that I’m in the backseat of a guy’s car, and he’s balling me, and it’s dark, and I don’t want to lose them. I’m not sure. It’s part of my ritual.” I continued to stroke my penis. I was amazed at how long I’d gone without climax. My femme side must include a “showgirl” somewhere. I kept on stroking, and snuck a peek at Madeline. She was fidgeting in her seat, and viewing me with rapt interest. I suspected that it was a turn-on for her.

“How many times have you done this since you began to date me?”

“I haven’t.”

“Don’t ever let me catch you,” she warned.

“You won’t.”

I delivered a few more strokes; then, I erupted. The show was over. I reached for the towel and began to clean up.

Madeline began to clap. “Bravo!” she cried. “That was quite a performance.” She was smiling broadly.

“Thank you. I’d like you to know it was my first and last public one.”

“We’ll see,” Madeline said as she handed me a powder-blue bathrobe. “Here, slip this on. You don’t want to catch cold. I think it’s time for some girl talk.” We tromped off to the kitchen. Over coffee, I bared what little was left of my soul.

“Now, what?” I asked. “Do you dump me?”

“No way. I think you and I can have the best of both worlds.”

“What do you mean?’

“Well, you can be my boyfriend and my girlfriend. There are advantages to each, and we’ll exploit the best of both. It will take some adjustment in our life style, but if you can handle it, I know I can. Besides, you’re the one who will be switching back and forth. A fearless Naval Officer by day, and a compliant, negligee-wearing roommate by night.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“You won’t make fun of me?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Because it’s not normal.”

“What’s normal? Besides, I like the idea of having a male that I can control. It’s every woman’s dream. Oh, I can hardly wait to see you in a silk blouse and a mini skirt. You’ll be ‘My Fair Lady.’ Now let’s go to bed.” We did. Our foreplay was much longer than usual. Madeline took the initiative and guided my hands and lips to heretofore unexplored regions of her body. When it was time, by unspoken agreement, she climbed on top of me, inserted my shaft, and slowly slid down it to the hilt. As she bobbed her pelvis up and down on it, we French-kissed, and I played with her boobs and wished that they were mine. In a flurry of movements and groans of ecstasy, we both came simultaneously. Exhausted and slippery with sweat, she collapsed on my chest. I stared at what was to be my first of many ceilings to come. Later, after we had showered together and powered our bodies, we jumped into sensuous nightgowns sans panties (just in case), and fell asleep on our sides in a matching fetal position, she in front of me with each of my arms wrapped around her waist. I couldn’t have been happier. It was short lived, however.
 
 
CHAPTER 4: YANKEE STATION
 
 
All too soon, Navy Fighter Squadron 77 embarked aboard USS SHILOH (CVA 35) and began its scheduled cruise in the Western Pacific. Scuttlebutt (gossip) had it that we were headed for the Gulf of Tonkin in Southeast Asia. Most of us didn’t know or care where that was. President Lyndon Johnson did, however. By Executive Order, SHILOH with VF-77 aboard would soon assume a position 100 miles off the Indo-China coast at 16 degrees North latitude and 110 degrees East longitude. For the next nine years, carrier pilots would refer to it as “Yankee Station.” It would be the best of times and the worst of times for “The Rat Pack.”

Madeline didn’t come pier side to see me off. We had made our goodbyes quietly and tearfully at her apartment the night before. Just before liberty expired at midnight, I walked up SHILOH’s gangplank and requested permission “to come aboard.” It was granted and as the hymn goes, I silently bid “farewell to college joys,” Madeline, and feminine finery, at least for the duration of the cruise. My only reminder of my other life was a desktop-framed picture of Madeline and me which I displayed whenever possible. It was taken at the San Diego Zoo a few days before I sailed. Maddie is in disguise, namely, a shoulder-length, black wig and hippy-style clothes. I am en femme, also wearing a shoulder-length wig, a light auburn with bangs cut, a blouse-sweater-and-skirt combination, flats, makeup, and earrings. Additionally, I affect large Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses. Why not? Madeline has bestowed the alter name of Tiffany on me. Besides, the glasses make for excellent camouflage. Probably only my mother might detect that the taller of the two smiling, slim girls in the photograph was Lieutenant Junior Grade Andrew Crewson, UNSR, an officer, a gentleman, a fighter pilot, and a transvestite. Anchors Away!

My first peacetime West Pac deployment quickly turned into a combat cruise. After departing San Diego with brief stops in Hawaii and Yokusuka, Japan, SHILOH took a position with two other carriers on Yankee Station in late February 1965. We were just in time for the start of Operation Rolling Thunder, the aerial bombardment of North Vietnam by US Air Force and Navy aircraft from March 1965 to November 1968. As a fighter pilot, my job was to protect the strike force from enemy aircraft and enemy air defenses. Over the next seven months, I flew more missions over North Vietnam than I care to remember. MiG sightings were few and far between. I saw a lot of the enemy’s air defenses, though, from small arms fire to various calibers of anti-aircraft artillery (triple A) to surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). Each mission, the North Vietnamese (NVA) air defense coverage seemed to be better coordinated and more intense. The United States was waging a strange air campaign. The odds were not in our favor.

My first MiG encounter was in June of that year three months after our arrival on Yankee Station. While flying as a wingman in a two-plane flight on a routine combat air patrol, we were vectored in pursuit of a distant bogey but never got close. It was the briefest of encounters and I only saw it as a blip on my radarscope. Before we could close to missile range, we had to break it off because the MiG took sanctuary in China. Two months later, though, in August 1965 and just before we departed Yankee Station for our return transit to San Diego, I saw my first MiG, eyeball to eyeball. Again, I was a wingman in a two-plane flight. This time we were escorting an attack mission on a bridge south of Haiphong when a flight of four bandits jumped us. They made a high-speed pass through the attack formation. Typically, whenever they did, they kept on going balls to the wall. They never seemed eager to reattack. This time they did. The fight was on and it was short and sweet. My section leader never got into the right kill position and came out of the engagement empty handed. Through luck more than anything else, I did. My first sidewinder missile missed because I shot it prematurely and was not in range. My second missile shot was near perfect. Everything was lined up and I had good audio tone. I saw it strike. There was a big fireball and no chute. Scratch one North Vietnamese MiG-17. Not too shabby for a nugget on his first combat deployment. I became one of the first Navy MIG Killers of a long, long war. Two days later we left Yankee Station for Subic Bay in the Philippines on the first leg of our homeward journey. Suffice it to say, that I, a 1960s-Ed-Wood-wannabe, had struck gold. Most Naval Aviators would give one of their nuts to nail a MIG. I had done so with seemingly minor effort and was the toast of the Air Group. All of a sudden, I was everybody’s friend and human tape recorder. The old adage from Lefty Gomez of the 1939 Yankees was true: “ I’d rather be lucky than good.” A Silver Star awarded to me on behalf of my actions in the best interests of the Naval Service was in the offing. This along with seven Air Medals swelled my chest just below my “Wings of Gold.” As an aside, I would later give both my nuts, not for another MiG, but for another cause, a la Christine Jorgensen.

At the end of December 1965, SHILOH returned to its homeport at Naval Air Station North Island (San Diego), VF-77 breezed into Naval Air Station Miramar, and after nearly an eight-month absence, I was reunited with Madeline. In less than twenty-four hours, a Justice of the Peace married us in Las Vegas.
 
 
CHAPTER 5: HELLO TIFFANY!
 
 
So, I began a new life as a husband. At first, our marriage was quite traditional, but gradually, my impulse to cross dress began anew. Madeline neither encouraged nor discouraged me as I fought my inner battle, although she knew a war was in progress. Eventually I surrendered unconditionally to these urges. It was too much for me to be surrounded by all the sights, smells, and trappings of femininity. Every time I opened our closet I was greeted by her wardrobe, which took up more than half. Her vanity table, laden with all the necessary makeup tools and ingredients, was another object of my attention. It was hard to miss. So too were her panties or hose which were frequently drying on the shower curtain bar in the bathroom. As for her lingerie drawer, I couldn’t walk past it without sneaking a peak. All that soft, lacy, and colorful finery took possession of my soul. I felt akin to an alcoholic attempting to dry out in a room full of heavy drinkers. I also realized that cross-dressing was like flying, i.e., the more you did, the more you wanted to do. Conversely, the less you did, the less you wanted to do, although the basic urge never went away entirely. It was always there like a cancer that would go into remission and then inexplicably return. Finally, one night I accepted my fate. While Madeline was washing her face after removing her makeup, I eased into a pair of her panties and one of her luxurious nightgowns, jumped into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin. Unsuspecting, Madeline lay down, settled in, reached over to grope me, as was her custom, and immediately came to grips with an enormous erection encased in nylon. “Welcome home, Tiffany,” was all she said as she pulled my nightgown up and panties down, took my throbbing penis in her mouth, and began a series of oral ministrations, which produced a torrential climax on my part. Payback was next as she maneuvered my head face down on her privates and held it there for what seemed like hours as she gently undulated her pelvic area. I let my tongue and imagination run wild. She began to emit moans of delight. This was followed by multiple orgasms as her body shuddered uncontrollably. Our sex life had never been better!

Every night thereafter, I wore a nightgown to bed. Madeline didn’t say a word. She smiled ruefully as if it were inevitable. Next, I started to wear panties under my civilian clothing; then a camisole; later a bra. A garter belt and hi-top hose came next. My progression continued. My favorite lounge attire at home consisted of a mini-skirt and a baggy Squadron T-shirt under which I wore panties and a bra. Without being asked, Madeline purchased a pair of foam-rubber-prosthesis breasts, and soon I was sporting a set of 38B jugs complete with false nipples. Whenever we watched TV together, we felt each other up during the commercials.

In between petting sessions one night on the living-room couch, I asked her what she saw in me. “A guy with a soft side,” she replied. “I much prefer that to a wife-beating-beer-guzzling-pot-bellied slob.”

“Do you hate men?” I asked.

“No. I tolerate them.”

“How about me?”

“You’re obviously an exception.”

“Did you ever have an affair with a woman?”

“Do you mean did I ever have sex with a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. Once I hit puberty, all those hormones got the better of me. Everyone thinks that guys are horny. Believe me, so are girls. Melissa, one of my closest girl friends, and I experimented with kissing one afternoon when we were alone. That led to fondling while fully dressed and then to fooling around with each other in just our panties and bras. In a matter of time, we were jaybird naked and crawling all over each other rubbing boobs and snatches. That was my first of many girl-to-girl orgasms. The best part was that you didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant or hearing through the grapevine at school how you had put out for some dumb jock.

“Any hang-ups about this girl-to-girl stuff,” I asked.

“Absolutely none. I feel sorry for you guys. You have to be so macho all the time. You can’t be ‘touchy-feely’ or cry or be vulnerable like girls can. But, hey, tell me about your first time.”

“Well, the icebreaker,” I began, “was when I went to Boy Scout camp for the first time during summer vacation. I was probably 12 years old and had never had a sexual experience, although I was just starting to become aware of my sexuality. Because I was the youngest as well as the smallest kid in my troop, I was on the receiving end of a lot of horseplay. One day after lunch we were on what was called ‘admin’ time. That was a fancy name for unsupervised activity. It meant the leaders or instructors were off somewhere and we were on their own. Naturally, this was an opportunity to start “grab-assing” around and someone would get singled out for special treatment. On this particular day, I was the victim and in short order, I was spread eagle on our cabin floor and held down by eight or so fellow scouts. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, they had stripped all my clothing off. First, they tried giving me a ‘pink belly.’ That’s where they slap your stomach softly but repeatedly until it hurts. After a while, however, they tired of that. Then, they tickled my nose and ribs with a feather. I suppose I didn’t respond with enough discomfort to please them because the next thing I knew, they took my scout neckerchief, blindfolded me, and began to tease my penis with the feather. It was only a matter of time before it was rock hard. That brought on all sorts of jeers and comments. Then one of my assailants slipped my neckerchief knot over my penis and began to slide it up and down to the amusement of everyone. Needless to say, I ejaculated. They cheered. Then they left me to clean up my mess.”

“Aw, that was mean,” Madeline said.

“Yeah, it was, but I wasn’t as humiliated as you would expect.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I know this sounds strange, but I liked the feeling of being made to do something against my will that I really had wanted to do myself but because of religious beliefs couldn’t. Also, and I know this sounds even more strange, but I enjoyed being naked, vulnerable, and submissive. I liked being looked at. It’s a great feeling, almost as if I had power over them. They wanted to see me have an orgasm more than I wanted to have one. And I wasn’t hurt. Am I making any sense?”

“A lot. Why do you think women wear short skirts and see-through blouses? They want to be looked at. At some point, all women have fantasies of muscular warriors, handsome rogues or whatever kidnapping and carrying them back to exotic lairs where they are made to submit to the male’s dominance. Women’s lib aside, a woman wants to be swept off her feet. That’s why romance fiction is so popular.” Madeline paused and then quickly asked, “What happened next?”

“As you might expect,” I continued, “I began to masturbate. Even after my camp experience, it still took a long time for me to build up the resolve to do it, though. I was raised a Catholic, and the Church claims that it’s a sin to perform self-gratification. One night, I was especially aroused and instead of stopping as I usually did whenever I had an erection, this time I lay belly down on the bed with my penis sandwiched between my stomach and the mattress. Then I began to push forward and back so that there was friction between the two surfaces. Nothing happened at first and I was about to call it quits when nature took its course. I started to experience these incredibly pleasant sensations followed by orgasm. This time, I had crossed the line by myself and jacked off. Up until I met you, that’s all I ever did.”

“How often?”

“A lot. And because of the Catholic Church, I always felt guilty.”

I turned to face Madeline and asked, “How about you? Did you feel guilty when you and Melissa were getting it off together?”

“Not at all. We had a grand time.”

“When was the first time you slept with a guy?’

“In college. I never had a steady, but I was anxious to find out if all the hype about getting laid was true, so one night I made sure not to wear a girdle, and I pretended to let my date sweep me off my feet. I balled him in the front seat of a 1938 Chevy. He wasn’t very expert. Despite his swagger, I was probably his first lay. I had teased him mercilessly throughout the evening. Lots of hand holding, slow dancing, whispering in his ear, the whole bit. Then we parked on a lookout near Point Vista. I let him unbutton my blouse and take my bra off. The poor kid was panting so hard I felt sorry for him. After a while I guided his hand down toward my panties. He was really excited now. To help him out, I placed his hand over my clitoris. I don’t think he knew what it was. For fun, I reached over and squeezed his hard-on. He flinched and started to deep kiss me. I broke away from his lip-lock and asked him if he had a rubber. He didn’t. I did, and I slipped it on him. Then I let him mount me. I had to insert his penis. On his own, I don’t think he ever would have found the mark. And let me tell you, the front seat of a floor-shift car is not the most romantic place in the world to relinquish your virginity. It went pretty much as I thought it would. After two or three strokes, my Lothario shot his load. I didn’t see stars or hear bells ringing. We cleaned up; I rearranged my clothes and stuffed my bra in my purse. Then he took me home. I never went out with him again.”

“That didn’t sound like a lot of fun,” I said.

“It wasn’t. What was fun though, was being in control. I like that. Men believe that women are the weaker of the sexes, but that’s a myth due to male conceit. When you have a pussy, you have real power. Unbeknownst to most men, the sex act itself is a great equalizer between the sexes. In fact, it’s clearly weighted in the woman’s favor. She can have multiple orgasms while the poor, muscle-bound Hercules is limited to one, and usually a quickie at that.”

Silently, I agreed with her. More and more, I felt my maleness being subjugated by my desire for femaleness. It was confusing. With my forefinger, I began to delicately explore her mound. How I envied her.

“You’ve got the right touch, Tiffany, a girl’s touch.” She started to wiggle in response to my explorations. In return, she went for my cock. In a matter of seconds, our skirts were coming up and our panties down. Like fledging acrobats, we were forever experimenting with new positions. This time, she had climbed on my lap with her legs wrapped around my waist in a vise-like grip with my penis deep inside her. We began to rock to and fro. She was moaning softly. I couldn’t get enough of her. We both came together. It was glorious.

Too glorious! There was that little matter of the war in Southeast Asia. SHILOH and “The Rat Pack” had to go back out. Before I went, however, Madeline and I decided on one more public outing together with me en femme. We had made several carefully selected forays with me dressed as Tiffany to shopping malls, movies, the San Diego Zoo, and restaurants. Invariably, we dressed down, i.e., nothing provocative, flashy or hot. I always wore a long-sleeved-collarless dress, minimum makeup (foundation, blush, eyebrow shadow, and lipstick, of course), and jewelry (gold necklace, clip-on pearl earrings in a gold setting, and a matching pearl ring) flats, a seven-eights coat or straight-line jacket, my Audrey Hepburn shades, and my trusty shoulder-length wig. Sometimes, I favored a headband. Underneath my mousy exterior façade howsoever, lurked a vintage tramp. My intimates were a combination of satin, nylon, lace, miniature rosebuds, tiny bows, and other frills. My slightest movement produced swish and rustle sounds that sent electric shocks up my spine. It was slippery to sit and loads of fun. I was constantly crossing and uncrossing my legs and guarding against dress creep. I loved the sensation of hose rubbing against hose and the feminine mannerisms of making sure that my slip wasn’t showing or tugging at my bra band or realigning loose straps. Madeline got a kick out of watching me discover girl things. Applying or refreshing my lipstick from a bullet tube was my favorite. She said that I was an apt student, but she was also a good teacher.

Before she let me go out in public as Tiffany, she had put me through a female “boot camp.” I had to walk, stand, sit, retrieve dropped objects, climb in and out of an imaginary car as both a passenger and as a driver in a female manner. At first, my attempts were awkward, exaggerated, and downright campy. Gradually, though, my female role-playing assumed a life of its own and with practice, I could exhibit convincing female movements, gestures, and body language. My voice tone was a problem, initially, and we spent a lot of time on that. Madeline had a great ear for pitch and eventually had me speaking in a reasonable feminine sound. At least, that’s what she said. It didn’t sound right to me, but I went with her judgment and it seemed to work. I was never challenged in person. Occasionally on the telephone, a clerk or dispatcher or whatever would respond “yes, sir” if I didn’t identify myself in the beginning as “Miss.” Once I corrected that person, then he or she would be most apologetic, but the damage had been done, and it would take me time to restore my confidence. It took me years to perfect, but I’m jumping ahead of myself. To cover our tracks even more on our outings, Madeline would hide her tawny-blond tresses under a black wig plus alter her normal clothing colors and makeup style. Our intent was that friends or acquaintances would not recognize either her or me. We were successful beyond my wildest dreams.
 
 
CHAPTER 6: DINNER IN CORONADO
 
 
On our last girls-only escapade before I sailed on my second combat cruise, we got into a rather tenuous situation. Foolishly, we ventured into a Mexican restaurant on Coronado that was a hang out for the Navy pilots from Miramar. We went in the late afternoon and thought we would beat the crowd. We almost did. After taking a secluded booth, ordering food and Margaritas, and engaging in innocuous chitchat, I heard a couple of familiar voices from the bar area. One was Mike Riordan; the other was Charlie Parker. Both were new to the squadron, replacement pilots recently trained for our upcoming cruise. It would be their first. My initial reaction was to bolt and to forget about the food and drinks we had just ordered. Madeline counseled restraint. Her view, which prevailed, was that our abrupt departure might cause uninvited attention to us because of waitress and bill complications. She reached across the table and patted my false-fingernail varnished hands. I was on the verge of voiding in my panties. All I could think about was a courts-martial for conduct unbecoming an officer. Madeline was grinning. She liked to push the envelope as we say (fighter-pilot jargon). “Hang in there, Tiffany,” she said soothingly.

I did. The Margarita helped. So did the fact that our booth was not visible from the bar. There was no reason for Riordan or Parker to come into the nearly deserted dinning area since they could order food at the bar. I relaxed further and began to enjoy my Chile Rellanos. Then I heard “Hey, Charlie. Look what I found.” The voice was loud, drunk, and belonged to Mike Riordan. The next thing I knew Mike was plopping down beside me and across from Madeline. I scooted over to the wall to put distance between us, but I was trapped. I was afraid to look at him. Instead, I looked to Madeline for help. She was caught as off guard as I and was speechless. That was a first.

“Hey, babe,” Mike said to the table more than to either of us. He was that drunk. We said nothing. “How about letting a Navy Fighter Pilot buy you chicks a drink?’ He reeked of beer, his eyes were red, and his voice was slurred. And his hands roamed. One of them was on my thigh; the other was fumbling for a cigarette. I squirmed. Madeline was stifling a smile. “What’s the matter, cutie, you don’t like fighter pilots?” He was talking directly to me, now. I was afraid either to look at him or to answer. In desperation, I shook my head. “That’s your loss, sweetie, not mine. I could show you a good time.” He had trouble getting the words out. He was that far gone. “And what’s with this Veronica Lake peek-a-boo bullshit? Let me see your face.” I was petrified with fear and as a last resort, turned to face the wall and put both of hands up to cover even the back of my head as I twisted around in the booth. It was not enough. He wrenched me around with drunken force, if not coordination. The front upper part of my dress ripped and momentarily the three of us were looking at the lace bodice of my slip. It was a defining moment to say the least. Then all hell broke loose. As drunk as he was, Mike knew he had gone to far. About the time he was sputtering, “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Madeline reached across the table and hit him in the nose with a short punch. Two waitresses came running over with round trays that they were prepared to use as battering rams on him or as shields for us depending upon how the battle went. The first one hissed, “Get out of here, you prick.” The second one yelled to the bartender, “Miguel, give us a hand.” Mike’s buddy, Charlie Parker, considerably less drunk and who heretofore had been missing in action, appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Mike, pulled him to his feet, and hurried him out a side door. Charlie reappeared shortly to apologize profusely to Madeline and me, the waitresses, the bartender, and everyone in general. Further turning on the charm, he placed a $20 bill on the table and said, “We’re really sorry. The dinner is on us. Let Miguel know how much we owe you for a new dress in the next day or so. We’ll leave the money with him.” He followed this up with an embarrassed smile and a goodbye hand wave. Then he was out the door too.

“Are you OK, Hon?” the first waitress to our rescue asked. Her nametag said Rosa. She was buxom and in her thirties pushing forty. She would have made mincemeat out of Mike. I was afraid to answer so I gamely nodded my head. The other waitress who also looked like she could hold her own, said, “Oh you poor thing. Let me help you.” Her nametag said Isabel. Magically she produced two bobby pins from her hair and pinned the front of my dress so that I was decent. “Thank you,” I managed in my best falsetto voice barely above a whisper. I was afraid to look her in the eye and I could only hope that my wig had not gone askew. “It’s nothing, dear. I’m glad that I could help. We girls have to look out for each other.” Rosa chipped in, “Those fucking Navy pilots from Miramar think that they are God’s gift to women. Piss on them.” Ah, sisterhood!

Madeline engaged Rosa and Isabel in small talk as she paid the bill and we made our departure. I felt about as inconspicuous as an elephant in a living room, but I brazened it out. Exercising my best femme posture, we made our exit. This was not the time to screw up and apparently I didn’t.

Once inside the car, though, the enormity of what had just happened hit me full force. “Holy Shit, Madeline,” I exclaimed. “That could have been a disaster. What if my wig had come off? What if someone had recognized me? What if the cops had been called?” I was shaking. “What…”

Madeline cut me off. “Enough of this ‘what if’ bullshit,” she said. “It didn’t happen and you got a first-hand look at what it’s like to be a girl. It’s not all chocolates and flowers. It can be demeaning and even dangerous. Let this be a lesson to you, sweetheart. Never let your guard down.” She leaned across and kissed me on the lips. “By the way, I was proud of you back there,” she continued. You held up well. Now, I think it’s time to go home.” We did. When we got there, it was a rush to get into the sack. Neither of us bothered to take our makeup off. Our hands and lips were all over each other. We pawed each other hungrily and wrestled from one end of the bed to the other. Soon we were both soaked in sweat and smeared makeup. Our perfume and body powder fragrances intermingled pleasantly into something not quite the other. Without penetration, she came first. Her shaking reminded me of the onset of buffet on an airfoil about to stall. I had never heard her moan so much. It made me all the hotter. I knew I was about to ejaculate prematurely, and it was going to be messy. Intuitively, she sensed my impending climax and with deftness twisted her body so that she could take my penis in her mouth. As soon as she did, I was off. She stayed engaged and swallowed and swallowed until I was completely spent. Then we both collapsed side by side. It was as if two Roman gladiators had fought to exhaustion and neither could gain an advantage. Bread and Circuses!

Youth was on our side, though, and we began to recharge. She began to finger randomly my chest while I traced lazy eights on her lower stomach with mine.

“Maddy, I’ve got a question.”

“So ask.”

“Why do you swallow?”

“It’s a girl thing, cutie. You’ll find out.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and I was afraid to find out. Later, I would.
 
 
CHAPTER 7: THE GULF OF TONKIN
 
 
Once again, I found myself at Carrier Pier boarding a warship for combat duty in the Western Pacific. It was in the fall of 1966. So long to Madeline, San Diego, Maiden Form bras, Frederick’s of Hollywood panties, mini skirts, bubble baths, and my hidden life. Hello to “YANKEE STATION,” shipboard showers, Olongopo, San Miguel beer, enemy anti-aircraft artillery (triple “A”) and Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMS), and I hoped, a MiG or two. Lieutenant Junior grade Andrew Crewson, also known as Tiffany, an officer, a gentleman, a husband, a MiG killer, and a cross dresser was off to war. This time, though, instead of a single snapshot of me in drag, I had several photos of myself in female garb affecting various poses at home and in the San Diego area. Madeline had performed her masquerade on me well. In fact, I was so proud of my concealment and ability to pass that I taped several of these pictures prominently alongside my bunk on SHILOH. None of my shipmates ever guessed that the tall, leggy, young woman in the pictures who favored flirty sundresses along with Jackie Kennedy like scarves around her neck and either wore large sunglasses or never looked directly into the camera was I. Whenever anyone would ask me who the mystery girl was, I would enigmatically tell them that she was a girl who meant a lot to me. I wasn’t lying.

We hit “YANKEE STATION” and went right into a full-court press as far as air operations were concerned. For fighter pilots that meant lots of Combat Air Patrols and escort missions. The biggest change since my previous combat tour was the increased intensity of the enemy air defenses. There were no holes in it. It may well have been the densest concentration of surface-to-air weaponry ever encountered by American aircrews. My survival trick was not to think about it. If I did, I probably would not have been able to man my aircraft, let alone be catapulted into that daily maelstrom.

It was hard not to think about it, however, when a shoot-down occurred. There were too many. On our first 45-day line period, “The Rat Pack” lost two aircraft and pilots, one to triple “A” and one to a SAM. There were no chutes. Under our silly Rules of Engagement, it was a race to see if the North Vietnamese would run out of ammo before the United States ran out of aircraft. The NVA had a decided advantage. Ammo was a hell of a lot cheaper than aircraft. I found this out for myself, first-hand, late in the deployment when coming home to the carrier “balls-to-the-wall” from an Alpha Strike, I took some triple “A” just as I was about to go “feet wet” over water and depart the North Vietnam coastline. I was low-level, fast, jinxing, and almost near the end of a hairy mission. By now, I had become a little too complacent with regard to dodging flak and surface-to-air missiles (SAMS). In retrospect, I might have thought that I was bullet proof. I wasn’t. As I flew over a Russian ship at mast level in Haiphong Harbor on this particular egress, I heard and felt some “thuds” strike my aircraft. Immediately after that, everything went to hell. It became deathly quiet in the cockpit. My instrument gauges told me that the death of my aircraft was imminent. There was no torque and the turbine temperature was unwinding faster than “a gambler’s lucky streak.” So was my airspeed. It was as if I had hit a wall. Unpowered flight will do this to you. My wingman, Mike Riordan, remember him? My antagonist from the Mexican restaurant was shouting, “Eject! You’re on fire. Get out!” I did. The Gulf of Tonkin awaited me and I became a charter member of its Yacht Club.

I would like to tell you that I was cool and collected as I struggled for survival, the epitome of grace under pressure. I wasn’t. I was scared, hyper-excited, and wounded, although I didn’t know about my wound until much later. It seems that some of those “thuds” that I heard striking my aircraft also struck me in the form of metal shards on my right upper bicep. A jagged scar would be the result. For years, I would not wear a sleeveless dress or blouse, but I am ahead of myself. Realizing that my Chance-Vought Crusader jet had overstayed its welcome, I made a brief radio call to the effect that I was “punching out” and pulled the face curtain. Shortly, thereafter, I was swimming in the Gulf of Tonkin, alone, afraid, and without a two-piece-Janzten-bathing suit.

To his everlasting credit, Mike Riordan, my ever loyal wingman, stayed on station overhead as I bobbed in the waters about two miles off the coast of North Vietnam. Various Vietnamese small boats attempted to intercept or surround me, but his low-level runs with 20 Mike-Mike guns held them at bay. Before long, I was on the receiving end of a hoist from a Combat Search and Rescue Helicopter. About two hours later, I was drinking medicinal brandy in Sick Bay with squadron mates aboard SHILOH. Mike landed with only fumes for fuel. He didn’t have enough for a wave off. I got a Purple Heart. Mike got a deserved Distinguished Flying Cross. Forever after, he was “always gentle on my mind.”

Suddenly, I found myself in demand. Because my wound wouldn’t heal, I was whisked off to the Naval Hospital at Cubi Point in the Philippines for rehabilitation. Hey, I was a celebrity of sorts, in that I was the only member of the Rat Pack to score a “kill” in combat since WWII. Korea didn’t count because VF-77 had been deactivated between the wars. Anyway, my point is that I was hot property. I was young, a wounded combat pilot, and a MIG Killer.

This was a mixed blessing. Once I hit Cubi, Navy nurses, younger ones, anyway, fought to date me. Older ones pretended that I wasn’t even on their radar screen, but at the same time, always managed to change my dressings or administer me sponge baths or wanted to catheterize me on specious grounds. Fame wasn’t my style, however. Remember, I was a closet cross dresser known only to my wife. Understandably, the Navy frowns on those of its male cadre who prefer skirts vice pants. So, I politely shrugged off any efforts at publicity and returned to my squadron as fast as I could. Besides, our war cruise was about to end and I wanted to be with the “Rat Pack” when it did. I barely made it back in time before SHILOH departed Yankee Station homeward bound. As fate would have it, my last mission over North Vietnam didn’t take place. Although I launched to escort a flight of attack aircraft whose mission was to bomb another worthless bridge, which would no doubt be repaired overnight, I experienced a complete electrical failure shortly after take off and had to abort. The next day, SHILOH was relieved on station. My combat days were over. San Diego, here I come.

SHILOH and its embarked Air Wing arrived in San Diego and Miramar in the late spring of 1967 in grand style. Families and friends were waiting. Maddy and I embraced warmly on the flight line after our fly off and headed straight for our apartment. She was wearing a mini skirt and a silk blouse that left nothing to the imagination. I could see her lacy bra underneath and her dormant nipples. They wouldn’t be at rest much longer. We had a lot of love making to catch up on. As soon as I opened the door, I knew that I was home. Waiting for us in the living room was a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and two fluted glasses. So was a black, silk-full-length slip with matching panties and bra plus a gorgeous Kimono wrap. They were in my size. Emotion flooded over me like the Colorado River fueling Hoover Dam. I was alive, home, safe, in love, and a transvestite who was not condemned to closets and peep shows, at least not with my life partner. Maybe I could go mainstream or something fairly close. I fervently hoped that I could. Time would tell.
 
 
CHAPTER 8: TIFFANY STRUTS HER STUFF
 
 
A long, hot tub bath followed, not the shipboard showers that had become my norm. Included were perfumed oils, bubbles, candles, and incense, not to mention sips from the French champagne. A razor was too. Between Maddie and me, my pliant skin was shorn of all body hair. It was pink, fresh, and virtually hairless. A terry-cloth towel dry-off was next. Then came gobs of body powder and a random dabs of my favorite scent applied to me in strategic places. I don’t know who was hornier, Maddie or me. Maybe it was a tie. We both were panting.

Despite our obvious fervor, Maddie insisted on giving me a “quickie” makeover before we hit the sheets. “I want to kiss it off of you,” is what she said. Lipstick, blush, mascara, eyeliner, and an eyebrow pencil were thrown on me like an Impressionist painter with a deadline. Her strokes were measured, even, and effective. In no time, because of my short hair, I looked like a WWII French collaborator mistress who had shacked up with a German soldier during the Occupation. It didn’t matter. I was ready to burst. Maddie was ready to explode. Shortly, thereafter, we both did. It was frenzied, animal like, and enjoyable. Monkeys or rabbits could not have had a better time.

Settling back into squadron life at Miramar after two combat tours in Vietnam was not easy for me. It was decision time. As a reservist, my obligated active service was coming to an end. The Navy wanted me to stay, but an inner voice told me it would be the wrong course. Maddy certainly wasn’t “gung ho” about military life and there was potentially a major conflict ahead with regard to my cross-dressing. If the Navy ever got wind of it, I would be summarily dismissed, an embarrassment to good order and discipline. Moreover, by now both Maddie and I knew that I was more than merely a cross-dresser. There really was a woman inside of me who wanted liberation and her own space in the world. My commitment to an alternate lifestyle was as deep as it was sincere. So, three-and-a-half months after the Rat Pack’s return, I bid my squadron mates a fond farewell at “Happy Hour” in the Officers’Club, and drove out the main gate of Naval Air Station Miramar for the last time in the uniform of a Naval Officer. The date was October 6, 1967 and I’ve never forgotten it. Oh, I knew that some day I would be back, but not in dress blues. Lieutenant Andrew Crewson, USNR, Naval Aviator, F-8 pilot, Centurion, MIG Killer, Officer, and Gentleman was adrift in more ways than one. I didn’t want to go back, but I was afraid to go forward. Thank the gods for Maddie. She gave me the strength to pursue my ultimate dream, that of permanently becoming Tiffany. The next day, I began my new life as a civilian. The first thing I did was to get my ears pierced.

The second thing that Maddie and I did was to purge all my male clothes except for my Navy Flight Jacket with its squadron, gunfighter, and “Westpac” patches. There was no way that I could ever give that up. It transcended gender confusion and assumed a well-earned place in our closet. From now on, though, it would be skirts, blouses, “buttons and bows.” I had my eyebrows plucked and shaped and began to grow my fingernails long as well as my hair. The latter would take some time, but there was no hurry. Femininity was just around the corner. Actually, it was several corners removed, an elaborate series of medical evaluations, and lots of female hormone ingestion. Then, in November 1969, I underwent my vaginoplasty at John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore and Andrew Crewson became Tiffany Crewson, no longer an officer and certainly not a gentleman. All through my pain, I fantasized, “If the Rat Pack could see me now. What would they think?”

Maddie was at my side the whole time. She wiped my brow, held my hand, whispered encouragement in my ear, forced me to walk, helped me go to the bathroom, and never let me waiver when it came to dilation of my new landscape. For the record, let me tell you first-hand that the stretching of a newly artificially created vagina is no fun. Quite the contrary, initially, it’s intensely painful. The procedure is also funny, particularly, when nurses bring in dildos in various sizes, shapes, and colors and ask you to select your weapon of choice. I was somewhat aghast. Heretofore, I had never considered a male penis threatening. Now I did. Intuitively, I recoiled at first when nurses waived them before me like choices on a smorgasbord. Their clinical language and professional demeanor soon fell prey to jokes, winks, and anecdotes. Welcome to the female inner circle, I thought. “Most men are pricks,” one of the older nurses told me. I ruminated on that briefly and began to laugh. Maddie laughed too. She understood.

Two weeks later, Tiffany Crewson, a five-foot-ten-inches tall chick in two-inch pumps, a short, denim skirt, not a mini, a frilly, lace blouse, a cashmere sweater, expertly applied makeup, freshly lacquered nails, a stylish hairdo, the right accessories, and all sorts of fancy and dainty underpinnings left Johns Hopkins for Miramar, California. It was my Manifest Destiny. Although I thought my voice was still a little too deep at times, my hands one size too large, and my Adams’s Apple a smite too notable, Maddie reassured me that I was decidedly passable. I hoped so. The surgery was irreversible. So was my commitment to the distaff side. Testosterone was out. Estrogen was in. Goodbye to male camaraderie, simple logic, and Henry Higgins-like musings such as “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” Hello to complicated emotions, erstwhile feelings of inferiority, feline competition, and empowerment of a different kind. Men may rule the world, but women are supreme as court intriguers. Ultimately, both sexes end up in bed together, and that’s where a woman has the advantage and the last word. The power of the pussy is awesome, even for handcrafted women such as myself. Men can’t do without it. That’s why they run around with perpetual hard-ons. As Tiffany, I would quickly learn the rules of engagement. I was a natural.

By now, all my savings were gone and I was in debt for my surgery. I had to find a job. I didn’t think I was cut out to be a secretary, teacher or nurse, so, once again, I went out on a limb. I used my GI Bill to enroll in a rotary wing flight school at Lindberg Field in San Diego and I became a helicopter pilot. Believe me, it was quite a novelty for females back in the late sixties and early seventies to be a pilot. This was long before the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) and it was an uphill struggle. It was doubly hard for me because I had to hide my Naval Flight Training and reinvent myself as a fledgling aviator. I was also a woman in a man’s domain. Welcome to discrimination. Within six months, though, I had my basic ratings and was able to flight instruct full time. This brought in a little money. So too did my part-time job as a waitress at a local restaurant. Yuk! Maddie was teaching music at a local college. We maintained, barely. In the meantime, I simultaneously honed my helicopter as well as feminine skills, especially the latter, since they required more work and were not innate. I learned how to be accommodating to men on small matters and how to end run them on the more important stuff. Makeup, hairstyles, fashion, color coordination, and the like became second nature to me. I learned how to flirt. That was a load of fun. I learned when to play the damsel in distress and when to be a bitch. It’s called survival. I had no choice. Despite the rough and tumble world of commercial helicopter aviation, I slowly carved out a niche for myself as a pilot without surrendering my hard fought femininity. It was tough going. You couldn’t show up on the flight line in a short skirt, a peek-a-boo blouse, heels, gobs of makeup, and reeking of perfume. In effect, I as a female, had to be more professional than my male counterparts. I also had to be subtler when it came to my airmanship. Men do not like to be shown up by chicks when it comes to the flying game. It’s a guy thing. Suffice it to say, I learned patience, humility, and manipulation. After a while, it was as normal as breathing. Maddie and I constantly compared notes. She claimed I was better in the use of female wiles than she was. Coming from a genetic girl, that was a major complement.

Two years later, I got my first big break and was hired as a pilot for a large helicopter company in the San Diego area that had a monopoly on utility operations in Southern California. I was their first female line pilot. Various women’s organizations sought me for interviews and appearances as a role model for other women, particularly, younger ones. Maddie and I laughed hard over that. For the most part, however, I scrupulously avoided the limelight. There were just too many gaps in my biography to explain. People thought that I was shy or modest. It added to my growing reputation as a “classy broad.” In fact, I was merely being careful. Andy Crewson, Rat Pack Emeritus, was long ago and far away. This was the “Age of Aquarius” and his alter ego, Tiffany. My new job meant, of course, that I was through flight instructing for peanuts and that I could kiss off my days as a waitress. Alleluia! I had certainly had enough of both, especially, the latter. “ Hold the pickle.” Right. Screw you!
 
 
CHAPTER 9: HAPPY HOUR AT MIRAMAR
 
 
To celebrate my job success, Maddie and I decided to do something different. We both wanted to dress up, go out, be seen, and have fun. Since neither of us was big on clubbing or knowledgeable about the bar scene in San Diego, Maddie suggested that we hit the Officers’ Club at Navy Miramar for the next Friday Happy Hour. Initially, of course, I had misgivings. The last time that I had been there was four years earlier in 1967 as Andy Crewson and I had been wearing pants. Maddie ever the adventurist insisted, however. As I would later find out, this was her way of finalizing my rite of passage as a woman. Shakespeare couldn’t have imagined a better drama. So, off we went. Life was certainly different for me now as I peered at it through mascara-enhanced eyes.

Before we left, though, we both dressed with the dedication and deliberation of a matador preparing for a “cinco de la tarde” appointment with fate. Each of us remembered how much Navy pilots loved tits. Well, we were prepared to do our bit for fleet morale. We encased ours in less-than-confining-wispy-lace-edged bras that left little to the imagination. Slips, girdles, and nylons were out. Skimpy panties, bare legs, painted toenails, and a casual hair look were in. Then we shimmied into tight, ultra-short, black dresses with lots of cleavage. Minimum jewelry, scant makeup, stiletto sandals and small clutch purses completed our amour. A quick belt, each, of Chardonnay, in our kitchen before we left gave us the courage to continue. Laughingly, we jumped into our trusty 1952 Cadillac Seville and headed out in the late afternoon to our rendezvous with the best that Miramar’s “Fighter Town” had to offer. Glen Campbell was wailing away on a local radio station about some lineman. Maddie drove. She was the personification of cool. All I could think of was how much she reminded me of Janet Greer from those great film noir movies of the 1940s. Egad, how I envied her. I rolled down the window, sat back in my seat, and basked in her glow. I examined my perfectly groomed nails and let my tongue skip along my recently applied lipstick, “Malibu Red.” The girl at the cosmetic counter where I had bought it and struck up a friendship called it “Cock Sucker Red.” She must have been a prophetess. This was “California Dreaming” at its best. Come on Navy Miramar. I was ready to roar.

As we expected when we signed in at the Main Gate and listed our destination as the Officers’ Club, the uniformed sentry ogled both of us thoroughly and with a leer, wished us a “Good Evening.” We laughed in unison.

The parking lot at the “O” Club was packed. Even from outside the concrete building, the roar from within was unmistakable. The Fleet was in town. As if on queue, Maddie and I checked our makeup one more time with compact mirrors from our purses, tugged at our short dresses in a vain attempt to make them longer, and with glistening red lips and swaying hips, click-clacked our way on open-toed heels through the entrance.

Talk about déjá  vu. The Club was exactly as I had remembered it from four years earlier. It was packed, noisy, and reeked of booze and cigarette smoke. Beer was the drink de jour. In some ways, it reminded me of a high-school dance. For the most part, the guys and girls were separated. The latter were sitting at the bar on stools waiting to be hit upon. The former were standing in various groups telling war stories and getting ready to make their advances. Even this early for a Friday night “Happy Hour,” sex was in the air. It would be a race to see who screwed whom. We took our place at the bar, ordered glasses of white wine, and awaited our roll of the dice. We didn’t wait long.

The junior officers made the first passes, especially, those with more than one beer in them. They were cute and fun to dance with. All of them were cocky and exhibited that confidence that only comes from being part of an elite group, in this case, Navy Fighter Pilots. Neither of us felt like baby-sitting, however. So without hurting their feelings, we kept everything light and good-natured. We also indicated that we had dates that we were going to join for dinner.

Next came the more senior officers in their forties, older Lieutenant Commanders and Commanders, mostly divorced and living as bachelors. They were heavy drinkers and harder to rid. Since this was a special night for us both, particularly me, so we bided our time.

Then we struck pay dirt, as we knew we would. Except their was a glitch. Remember the old adage that goes something like, “Be careful what you wish for?” Well, this is what happened. Take it from me: “Fate is truly the hunter.” Maddie saw them first and with an ever so slight nod to me pointed them out. I casually glanced in their direction and immediately gasped. Simultaneously, my bladder muscles constricted. No leakage was done, but it was close. When you have as many skeletons in your closet as I did, it’s no wonder. From the other side of the bar, Lieutenants Mike Riordan and Charlie Parker were coming directly towards us. All I could think of was that Mexican restaurant on Coronado five years ago and the ripped bodice on my dress courtesy of one drunken Mike and a lesser-drunken Charlie. We had come full circle. Now I knew, life really did imitate art. I did two quick Zen-style inhalations and exhalations. That’s all the time I had. Maddie pressed my hand and winked at me as she whispered, “Don’t worry. There’s no way that they’ll remember us.” In the next instant, Mike was saying, “Hey, what are two beautiful looking ladies like you sitting here alone for. May we join you?” They did. “Barkeep,” Charlie called out. “Two of whatever the ladies are having and two drafts, Okay?”

Within the next five minutes, we found out that Mike and Charlie were Navy Fighter Pilots. Duh. No kidding? And former members of Fighter Squadron 77, known throughout the world, at least according to them, as the famous “Rat Pack.” The small hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I heard that. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and crossed my legs first one way and then the other. I sneaked a look at Maddie. She had a Mona Lisa expression on her face that betrayed nothing. Mike and Charlie rambled on about how great Navy Fighter pilots were. Maddie and I played their game. We sat there with rapt looks as if we really believed all the bullshit they were handing us. During rare pauses in their monologues, we would smile adoringly, flutter our eyelashes, and toss them softball exclamations that would cause them to soar to even greater heights in regard to their exploits as carrier pilots and combat veterans. In doing so, I was reminded of Hedy Lamar’s famous line: “Any girl can be glamorous. All you have to do is stand still and look stupid.” Maddie and I certainly qualified.

One thing led to another---the drinks helped--- and Mike and I paired up, as did Charlie and Maddie. Occasionally in between raucous, “go-go” tunes, someone would play a more restrained one on the jukebox and we would take the floor to do some slow dancing. That’s when Mike and Charlie would really lay on what they thought was their overwhelming charm. We played along. Our intrepid aviator beaux unleashed light kisses, heavy breathing, tongues in the ear, copped feels, double entendres, and other little lounge lizard tricks that we were expecting. It was fun. They thought that they were going to lay us. It was just the opposite. We were going to ball them. I knew that Mike was ready because I could feel his manhood pressing against my thigh. Later on a powder room break, Maddie confirmed that Charlie had a similar hard on. “Let’s bust their balls,” she said. We both giggled and planned to do exactly that.

The evening wore on and Mike and Charlie were becoming more amorous. Remember the old Gershwin line? “When bottles are popping and dignity’s dropping…” They probably hadn’t been laid in a week or since the last Friday Happy Hour a week earlier. Needless to say, they were horny as hell. We toyed with them like an expert fisherman with a prize Marlin on his line. It was almost too easy. Women can control their sex drive. Men can’t. We were in charge and enjoying it immensely. Chicks rule! I along with Maddie had become an ardent feminist.
 
 
CHAPTER 10: FROM OUT OF THE PAST
 
 
About 9:30 or so, Maddie and I decided to make our move. We both wanted to get home before twelve. Also, we didn’t want to overextend Mike or Charlie who by this time had consumed more drafts than either we or they could remember. From necessity, we wanted them to be able to rise to the occasion. So we each whispered romantic notions in their ears about retiring to a more intimate place such as separate rooms in the nearby Bachelor Officers’ Quarters or BOQ. Mike and Charlie looked like the proverbial cats that had swallowed canaries. Like the sophisticated “cocks men” they considered themselves, they exchanged “I told you so looks” and winks. We pretended not to notice and prepared to leave. That’s about the time I heard a familiar voice say, “Mike, Charlie, where did you two rats ever find these gorgeous girls?” All too soon the body of that voice was standing in front of us smiling broadly. My old commanding officer, Commander Randy Lee, now a full Navy Captain, was eying Maddie and me appreciatively. We were tasty morsels before his eyes and he wanted one. Remember, this was 1971 and well before those Maalox advertisements; howsoever, I had a Maalox moment anyway and it showed.

“Is something wrong, Miss?” Captain Lee asked more out of surprise than concern.

“No, I’m sorry,” I lied and faked a cough or two. “I think all this cigarette smoke is getting to me. By the way, I’m Tiffany. This is Maddie.”

In an effort to disarm him, we both then gave him 1000-wat smiles that in effect said, “And boy are we impressed with you.” It would be hard not to. He was tall, slim, had jet black hair with light flecks of gray establishing inroads around his side burns, and his Silver Star and Distinguished Flying Crosses ribbons on his left chest attested to his flying prowess. Among the many simultaneous thoughts that were racing through my head, I was struck by how much he looked like a younger Errol Flynn. I began to fantasize about how he would be under the sheets. Maddie told me later that she had the same “yummy” thoughts.

At some point, I fully expected him to say, “You know, you remind me of someone. Did you ever know Andy Crewson?” Fortunately, he didn’t, but I still felt as if he were peering into my soul. He was certainly looking into my eyes. Small talk followed although not for long. It was obvious that we were on our way out of the Club and that the four of us had more on our minds than conversation. A good sport, Captain Lee was most gracious as he bid us goodnight.

As we stood side-by-side in parting Captain Lee said, “I look forward to seeing you young ladies again.” Maddie and I smiled in a polite albeit non-committal manner. Then he added, “Tiffany, have you ever been here before?”

“No, this is my first time, I said with innocence. As a matter of fact, it was my first visit as Tiffany. Not even a white lie. That was easy.

“Gosh,” he continued. “You look like somebody’s wife or girlfriend that I used to know. Someone from my old squadron, VF-77.” He paused and suddenly snapped his fingers. “That’s it. You’re a dead ringer for a girl that I used to know or see around the Club a few years ago. Give me some time, I’ll think of it.”

“Was she as beautiful as Tiffany,” Maddie sweetly piped in.

“Oh you bet, whatever her name was, she was a good looker, just like Tiffany here, although I don’t think she was as tall.” That was no doubt the truth. With my three-inch heels, I was as tall as he.

I could tell that he was stalling for time. He was trying not to show how closely he was scrutinizing me, but my antennae were on full alert. Mentally, he was undressing me and his eyes roamed repeatedly from my face, especially my eyes, to my boobs and back with the quickness of a snake. He was also horny. Poor Claire, at least that is what I recalled his wife’s name was. She was going to get reamed tonight when he came home. What is it with sailors? We began to walk to the door. I made sure my hips had an ever-so-subtle wiggle. Maddie did too. Happy wet dreams, Captain Lee, in the event your wife is asleep.

“Goodnight, Tiffany, Maddie, Mike, Charlie,” Captain Lee said as he shook each of our hands. I noticed that he held mine a little longer than the others. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. He was clearly attracted to me. I was riding a whirlwind and actually starting to enjoy it. Too much wine will do that to you. My comedienne-inner self mused, if the truth ever came out, now wouldn’t that make for great tabloid headlines: “Navy Pilot Falls For Navy Pilot.” Even better, how about: “When Randy Met Andy.” Oh yeah, there were dizzying possibilities that wouldn’t look so funny tomorrow morning.

Maddie and I delivered our “Goodnight Captain” lines with radiant smiles. He was pleased, ever the male peacock.

“See you later, Skipper,” was Mike’s contribution.

“So long, Sir,” was Charlie’s donation.

“Tiffany, I’ll think of who you remind me, yet,” Captain Lee called to me as we stepped away into the parking lot.

“Good luck,” I replied and I blew him an air kiss. He waved back and was gone.

Maddie playfully swatted me on my touché and sarcastically said, “Smart ass.” Then she gave me a conspiratorial smile and quietly continued, “Let’s ball these guys in a hurry and get home. I’m hungry.” That was Okay with me. I was too.
 
 
CHAPTER 11: A ROOM WITHOUT A VIEW
 
 
We followed in our car behind Mike and Charlie as they drove separately to the BOQ. I was about to get laid by a man for the first time ever as a woman. Naturally, I was curious and a little anxious. Maddie’s advice was simple: “Moan a lot and move around a lot. Men don’t know the difference. Besides, all they want to do is climb on you and get their load off. It doesn’t take much finesse on the woman’s part. Believe me!” I did believe her.

“How about, you know,” I paused, “oral sex. Do you swallow?”

“You can. It has a neutral taste. Guys love it when you do. Remember how much you liked it back in your former---uh---life?” She was right. I remembered it very well.

Maddie gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. Then she said, “Hey, Tiffany. Remember this is girl’s night out for us. This is your baptism. You’ve never had a guy jump on your bones and start pounding you or had a pulsating penis stuck in your mouth. I want you to experience it firsthand. After tonight, you’ll never worry about ‘passing’ again. You’ll truly be one of us. If you don’t experience it, you’ll always wonder what it was like. That’s the only reason we’re here. It’s not because you’re in love with Mike or that I’m in love with Charlie. It’s just a simple, mechanical act that can be pleasurable. Don’t make it complicated.” I decided that I wouldn’t and I squeezed her hand in affirmation.

“Maddie, I love you.”

“And I love you, Tiffany. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Now, let’s bust their balls and pickup some tacos on the way home.” She looked at her watch. “It’s 10:00. I’ll meet you back here no later than 11:30.

We each did our lipstick and compact mirror trick. It was second nature to me. As we alighted from the car, I had one more nervous thought.

“Maddie, what about rubbers? Do you think we need them?” I asked.

“You bet,” she answered with a laugh. “Although you don’t have that problem, I don’t want to get knocked up. Not to mention that our lover boys might have picked up a little something in the PI.” I smiled. No reply was necessary. Besides, both of us were carrying condoms in our purses. Maddie had thoughtfully equipped us both before we had left our house. Never leave home without them, right? Hey, that would make a good advertisement sound bite!

Mike and Charlie met us at a side entrance and we clique-clacked our way across heavily wax-polished linoleum floors to a concrete stairwell and noisily made our way up to adjoining rooms on the second floor. Aren’t high heels great?

Once we were established in our rooms, there weren’t any formalities with which to contend. This was about raw sex among willing people for whatever reason. There was none of that, “May I take your coat?” or “May I offer you a drink?” stuff. Mike closed the Venetian blinds, selected a soft music station from the bedside radio, dimmed the lights, and came at me. I flipped my purse on the steel dresser, kicked off my heels, and we met head-on. We entwined as one with a desperation that is borne of need and circumstance. He put a lip lock on me that was airtight and water proof. Our tongues came together like eels in the small tank of a Chinese restaurant. Talk about a deep throat. I didn’t know it was possible to imbibe that much muscular structure, but then, I had never kissed a male before. I could feel his beard stubble on my face and it was a turn on. My tits, tipped with erect nipples, were boring holes in his chest. In return, I could feel his Navy Wings of Gold and multiple combat ribbons from his uniform pressing what I thought were indelibly into the flesh of my right breast. My hands began to explore his back, and his taunt muscles and firm buttocks only ratcheted my desire to get it on. We continued our mutual writhing exercise and I was amazed at his flat stomach and narrow hips. Holy you-know-what, this guy was built of granite. Moreover, he had a nether-region member that was apparently made of kryptonite. Whatever I had felt on the dance floor was merely a tease for the battering ram that was now poking through the cloth of his pants. This was going to be a memorable fuck.

I knew that he couldn’t last much longer. He was panting heavily and exhibiting all the signs of premature ejaculation. I didn’t want that gooey stuff on me. Heck no, I wanted it in me. I think that we both reached the same conclusion simultaneously. We broke for air and loosened our grips on one another. I took the opportunity to ask, “Would you unfasten me, please?” I twirled around so that he was looking at the three, small buttons on the back of my dress. Clumsily, he complied. How come men can’t handle dainty buttons? Is it a matter of not having the right hormones? Hmm, I’d have to ask Maddie, later.

With my buttons freed, I shrugged my scoop-collar dress off each shoulder and it fell silently to the floor. I was down to panties and a bra. He looked at me hungrily. I did my only-as-a-woman-can-unfasten-my-bra trick and flicked it away. Mike was now feasting his eyes at a near-perfect pair of 38B knockers that because of their relative newness, defied gravity. They really were pear shaped. As his eyes roamed my body, they stopped at my shrapnel scar on my upper right arm just below the shoulder. It was red and ugly and he fingered it. “What the hell happened here?” he asked.

“Let’s just say it was an accident that could have been a lot worse. I was lucky,” I replied.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I guess.” Lust obviously trumped curiosity as he started to tug at my panties. “Not yet,” I demurred. “It’s your turn.” Clark Kent couldn’t have peeled his clothes off more quickly to reveal his Superman costume than Mike did when he stripped down to his bulging jockey shorts. What struck me as odd and decidedly unromantic, though, was that he kept his shoes and socks on. What was his problem, a Fire Drill or General Quarters? It’s a wonder that he didn’t keep his hat on too. Oh, well, I wasn’t going to marry the guy and be stuck with him for life. We resumed our clinch and he guided us onto the bed and soon I was looking at the ceiling. He was ready to go for Olympic Gold and began to tug at my panties.

“Uh-unh,” I murmured. “First we need to take some precautions, Okay? Slip this on,” I said as diplomatically as I could as I reached for my purse, extracted a prophylactic, and handed it to him. He frowned as he rapidly groped with it, but in short order his long member was encased in a white sheath. It reminded me of a Klansman wearing a robe. I stifled a laugh.

“Now, turn off the lights please,” I said.

“Yeah, sorry. No problem,” he replied with the indifference of someone swatting a pesky fly. With one hand he reached over and clicked the bed lamp off. The room went dark. With the other, he tugged at my panties. Let’s hear it for ambidexterity. Off they came. Almost without missing a beat, he somehow wiggled out of his jockey briefs and easily positioned himself on top of me in the typical missionary-style-conjugal position. I was amazed. This guy must have a minimum of three hands I thought since at least two of his were clumsily massaging my jugs. Then again, maybe I was in Sea World and he was an octopus. If so, five more hands were unaccounted for. That was not comforting. About this time, though, I could feel his manhood throbbing against my thigh and I quit counting hands. Knock, knock, someone was at my door. This intruder was not going to go away

I answered by taking the head of his staff and guided it to the proper positioning. His rod then glided deeply into place like a hand into a familiar glove. We were one and the same. He began to ram me. Thank you, Doctor Jenkins and the hospital staff at Johns Hopkins, I silently prayed. I also started to cry. It worked. I had never been happier. I was now officially a woman.

“Oh baby,” he moaned mantra like while he repeatedly plowed into me as if this would be the last time he ever got his rocks off. I felt a little sorry for him. He was semi-drunk, wreaked of hops, lonely, and trying to uphold a mystical tradition that proclaimed Naval Aviators were the best lovers that a woman could ever hope for. I didn’t want to pierce his bubble so I pretended that he was the ultimate pleaser. I feigned, moaned, wiggled, and groaned. This moved him to new heights and he continued to pound me sans mercy or finesse. In effect, he was jacking himself off. The pleasure was not all his. I was fascinated by this novel experience. He was also validating my new sexual equipment. I needed the confirmation and got in sync with his thrusts and pushed back with commensurate pelvis verve. There was no doubt in my mind that he would soon climax. His battering ram engorged even more and I was ready. Almost a heartbeat thereafter, he came like a break in the hull of a torpedoed oil tanker. He emitted one more, “Oh Baby,” kissed me on the tip of my nose, pulled his flaccid pole out of my carefully crafted receptacle, flopped belly down alongside me, and almost immediately fell asleep. So much for true love! His snores said it all. He was out for the count.

I checked my watch. It was 10:45. In 45 minutes, Maddie and I would be having tacos and comparing notes. I could hardly wait. I turned on the bed lamp, grabbed my panties, and headed to the bathroom. Navy lavatories are not designed for women requiring douches, but I managed to get his smell out of me. I washed my face, reapplied my lipstick, ran a comb through my hair, and slipped my dress back on. I decided to hell with the bra and slipped it into my purse. My tits didn’t sag and my nipples stood out. I was pleased. With Maddie in mind, I took my lipstick applicator and deftly reddened the latter. This was one of her favorite fetishes. She claimed that it was like licking a spoon after preparing a tasty confection.

Now it was time to make my exit and I was more than ready. Mike had been an interesting piece of ass, my first, in fact, but it was over. There was no question, now, that I was a confirmed “lipstick lesbian.” So what if I wasn’t a genetic woman, I was the next best thing. Besides, only Maddie knew the difference and she wasn’t about to tell.

Mike, belly down, continued to snore and snore. He was bare-ass naked–shoes and sox excepted--- and looked considerably less imposing than when he was in his uniform with his Wings of Gold and combat decorations. I sat down beside him on the bed and patted his buttocks. Leering at me from his right cheek was an all too familiar image from our squadron patch that our pilots had a Philippine tattoo artist mark us with for life during one of our line breaks from Yankee Station on my last war cruise. It consisted of a vulgar, lecherous-looking rat complete with an aviator’s cloth cap and goggles leering out from the cockpit of a WWII Navy Hellcat or F6F. About the circular size of an orange, the design’s primary colors of red, green, blue and black were still rich and had not faded in the least. It was grotesque and fascinating to look at as well as hard to hide under intimate conditions. Because I was identically marked, that’s why I had worn black panties and had not allowed Mike to take them off with the lights on. There is no way that I could have talked my way out of that. “Goodbye, Mike. God bless,” I whispered softly as I walked out of the room carrying my purse and shoes.
 
 
CHAPTER 12: RANDY AND ANDY
 
 
I decided to wait for Maddie in the lobby, which was deserted, rather than in the car. The Filipino seaman manning the desk looked up from his newspaper as I walked by, smiled politely, and said, “Good Evening, Ma’am.” I smiled and returned his salutation. It was as if nothing had changed. The same military issue chairs, sofas, tables, and lamps were exactly in the same places that I had remembered. Only the magazines had been updated although they, too, were not current. I idly fingered a copy of the base newspaper. No changes, there, either. The smell of Navy coffee led me to the urn in the next room, which was a smaller version of the main lounge except that it was unlighted. It was not total darkness, however, and I could easily navigate in it as I poured myself a cup of coffee.

That’s when I had another of those Maalox moments; only this one was the ultimate and has never been repeated. It came about when I heard that clearly recognizable voice from somewhere in the darkened room. It said exclamatorily, “I remember, now. Andy Crewson.” I gasped as if I had been struck with a bullet. My hands began to shake so much that I could barely control the cup on my saucer. This time Maddy and I had “pushed the envelope too far.” My mind went blank and I had no idea what I was going say. Fight or flee? At this point, I could do neither. Without turning around, I set the coffee cup and saucer down and resignedly waited for what the gods had in store for me.

It was soon in coming. The next thing I knew, Captain Lee was standing immediately behind me with his hands placed gently on my shoulders. I could feel his breath on neck.

“Tiffany,” he began. “It’s been bothering me since we met at the Club earlier tonight where I knew you from. Talk about coincidence, I just figured it out before you walked in to the lounge a few moments ago. How about that?” I steeled myself for what was coming next. “You used to date Andy Crewson, one of my pilots,” he continued. “I remember the photographs of you that he used to have taped on the bulkhead by his rack aboard SHILOH. You were tall, skinny, wore flowered dresses, and large sunglasses. There was another girl in some of the pictures, not all, but I don’t remember much about her. You were the more dramatic one. Am I right?”

Relief flooded over me like the spray from an unleashed garden hose. He hadn’t figured it out. Instinctively, I wanted to let out a loud cheer and do cartwheels. Instead, however, I turned to face my interlocutor and sweetly said, “Captain, you are most observant.”

In reply, he leaned forward and kissed me long and hard. There was no resistance on my part. Some inner, primeval force compelled me to return his affection and once again, I felt Navy Wings and combat decorations boring into the right side of my chest and an unfamiliar tongue exploring my mouth. About a nanosecond later to paraphrase Mae West, either the gun in his pocket or his gladness to see me was poking against my thigh. We broke for air and he guided me to a two-place sofa in the corner. It was crunch time.

“Captain,” I tentatively began.

“No. Please call me Randy.”

“Okay, Randy. Excuse me, though, but isn’t there a Mrs. Lee somewhere?” I asked as diplomatically as I could.

“Claire divorced me three years ago. She said that I spent too much time away from home and that my number one priority had always been flying. And she was right on target. The aircraft or the squadron or the West Pac cruise always came before her. All things considered it was a fairly amicable split. She stills lives in El Cajon. I live here in the BOQ. Hey, that’s life.” His hands began to roam and he found my erect nipples. Then he continued, “By the way, whatever happened between you and Andy?”

“Let’s just say that we had a significant difference of opinion on how each of us wanted to spend the rest of our lives,” I answered. “We parted as great friends and I think about him fondly.” Randy nodded. He understood the reality of different life styles if not the scope of difference that existed between his and mine. In so many ways, we were one and the same. It was time to “push the envelope.” As casually as I could, I asked, “What was your take on him, Randy?”

“A good stick. One of the best I’ve seen. Flying came naturally for him. He was a loner, though. I always sensed there was something different about him. What it was, I never figured out. In the three years he was in the squadron, I never saw him with a girl. In fact if it weren’t for the pictures that he carried of you, I probably would have thought that he was gay. I’ve often wondered whatever happened to Andy? Do you know?”

“No, I don’t,” I lied. “But I’m pretty sure that he’s happy. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

“Well, I hope so. We need more happy people in the world. How about you, Tiffany, are you happy?”

“More than you could ever possibly imagine, Randy.” He took that as a come on and we began to neck again. I had to bring this to an end, pronto.

In between passionate gropes, I said, “Randy, I hate to be a spoilsport, but I’ve got to go soon. What time is it?”

He squinted at his luminous watch dial in the dark and said, “11:20. What’s the hurry?”

“Randy, the hurry is that I have another life and that you’re not a part of it. I’m sorry. But before I go, I’m going to do you a favor that you’ll never understand or forget. Don’t make anything out of it. Just enjoy it. Okay?”

With that, I gave him one more deep kiss, broke our clinch, guided him back against the sofa, and with the speed of a lynx, went for his belt buckle. His zipper came next. He was wearing boxer shorts so access to his penis was as simple as parting a flimsy curtain. In the next instance, I had his ramrod-hard penis in my mouth and began to give the first blowjob of my life. It must have been a bravura performance because in short order the good Captain was panting, squirming, and thrusting in sync with my oral ministrations. He also was squeezing each side of my head like he was holding a basketball. He was hot. I was expectant. I hoped I was ready for what was coming next. That’s when his orgasm cut in. His prick enlarged and he became as tense as a high-wire performer operating without a safety net. POW, POW, POW! Three heavy ejaculations of semen hit me with the force of a nasty boil erupting. Two much weaker ones followed in their trace. It was all I could do to keep from spilling the stuff as I valiantly struggled to swallow every drop. To my surprise, I was leak proof and there was no mess. The taste was neutral. It reminded me of the whites of raw eggs. I didn’t bother to zip him back up. Instead, I kissed him firmly on the mouth making sure that he ingested several dollops of his expended juices. There’s nothing like an even playing field between the sexes.

“Goodbye, Randy,” I said quietly. I smiled fondly, although he couldn’t see that.

“Tiffany,” he sputtered. “You mean I’ll never see you, again?”

I didn’t bother to answer. There was nothing more to be said. Then I was gone. Click-clack, click-clack, I made my way down the concrete steps of the BOQ and along the sidewalk to our car. Maddie was just opening the door to the driver’s side. I opened the passenger-side door, sat down beside her, and checked my watch. It was exactly 11:30. We were both on time and on target. Each waited for the other to speak. When neither of us did, we both simultaneously burst out laughing. We pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the main gate. A different sentry was on duty, but he ogled us as thoroughly as the previous one had when we had come aboard. The slight sneer on his face said what he was thinking, “Officer Pussy” as he waved us through. We smiled brightly. It was taco time.
 
 
CHAPTER 13: MARIA’S
 
 
“Maria’s” was a small family restaurant off the main thoroughfare in El Cajon. Its clientele was for the most part Mexican. The food was delicious and the prices were cheap. The menu was in Spanish. English was definitely a second or unknown language here. Maddie and I had found this place a few years back, just after I had transitioned to Tiffany full-time. At the time, we were looking for out-of-the-way places where we would not run into people we knew as I carved out my new role as a female. Because our Caucasian presence for the most part went unnoticed, we continued to eat there even after I became more comfortable in my new appearance. Occasionally, some of the Hispanic men would look us over, huddle together and make hushed comments to each other, and then laugh uproariously. But, hey, men do that all over, right? It has nothing to do with ethnic origins. It’s all in their brains. Their wiring is screwed up.

We each ordered the Taco plate and beers. The former arrived piping hot and the latter ice cold in longneck bottles. To hell with formalities, we were hungry and thirsty. A flurry of bites and gulps followed. Once our hunger and thirst had been satiated, we sat back and looked at each other. Satisfaction beamed from my face. Amusement and curiosity radiated from Maddie’s.

“Well,” Maddie began. “How was it?”

“Different, that’s for sure,” I answered truthfully.

“What was the best part?”

“Being in control from start to finish.”

“What was the worst part?”

“His shoes and socks.”

“Huh?” Maddie’s eyebrows arched to the point they reminded me of a drawbridge opening to allow a barge to pass under.

I took another draught of my beer. The bottle was now moist and warm to my touch, just like someone after spent sex. An appropriate image I thought considering how I had whiled away the last hour or so. I smirked and then replied, “Calm down, Maddie, dear. It wasn’t kinky. Amateurish would be the correct word.” I then went on to tell her about Mike’s less than romantic bedroom manners. Maddie’s eyebrows collapsed. The barge had safely passed. She laughed long and loud. It caught the attention of some sombrero wearing men at a nearby table. They observed us quizzically, did their huddle thing with the hushed voices, and then laughed too. It was a great moment: at one table you had two gringo women talking about male genitalia in English and at an adjacent table, you had several Mexican men talking about female genitalia in Spanish. They waved good-naturedly to us. We returned the courtesy. Then, the moment passed. It confirmed, however, that sex has its own unmistakable lingua franca. We paid our bill, left a nice tip, and left.

“How about you, Maddie? I asked as we drove home. “Was Charlie any good in bed?”

“Not really. He did take off his shoes and socks, though.” She then turned to me, grinned wickedly, and said, “As a matter of fact, he was a lousy lay. I hope that he’s a better fighter pilot than he is a lover.” She paused, shrugged her shoulders, and continued, “The poor son-of-bitch had a premature ejaculation when he tried to slip the rubber on and blasted his stuff all over my new panties. That’s why I’m not wearing any now. Then he fell asleep. I checked his backside for that grotesque tattoo. It was there all right. As a parting gesture, I left a big lipstick kiss mark right above it. I think that the Rat Pack needs an overhaul.

“Captain Lee doesn’t,” I said.

“Huh?” she exclaimed. Although I couldn’t see her eyebrows arch, I could sense the drawbridge going up.

“I had a slight encounter with Randy in an empty corner of the BOQ lounge when I was waiting for you,” I said in as neutral a tone as I could muster.

“And?” The drawbridge was fully raised now.

“And one thing led to another and I gave him a blowjob.” I was amazed at the matter-of-fact sound in my voice. For all practical matters, I could have been describing a trip to a launder mat.

“Did you swallow?”

“Every drop.”

Mentally I heard the drawbridge lower again as she said, “Good girl. Welcome to the club. You’ve been boffed by a guy and you given head. You had quite a night and it’s not over yet.” She reached over with a free hand and slipped it down the front of my dress and began to finger my left nipple. It snapped to attention. I in turn snuggled closer to her and slipped my right hand under her hemline and let my fingers do the walking up her bare thigh straight for her honey pot. I then entered her private domain with my index finger, found it well lubricated, and began a gentle and systematic probe. We couldn’t get home fast enough and when we did, the car windows were virtually steamed over.

Click-clack, click-clack, we raced up the driveway to the front door. She fumbled for the key and what was only a few seconds seemed like an eternity. Between us, we slammed the door shut, flipped on the hallway light, shook our heels off, and made a beeline for the bedroom. A sensuous embrace followed and our hands and began to roam as our lips and tongues became virtually grafted to their opposites. Mutual violent pelvic thrusting ensued as we dry humped each other. Then, frantic mutual pawing resulted in our “little black dresses” lying at our feet. She had a bra and no panties. I had panties and no bra. We must have looked like “Barbie” dolls run amuck. More groping continued as her bra and my panties joined the wardrobe at our feet. We edged our naked selves toward the large, double bed we shared, lay down, and soon were in the center of it still engaged in our embrace. Busby Berkeley couldn’t have choreographed a better dance routine between partners. And then the real fireworks started. It was “tits-and-clits” time. We suckled, we fingered, we teased and we penetrated each other with vibrators and dildos. A musky aroma filled our love nest along with the smell of sweat, perfume, powder, and other cosmetic products. It was glorious. Maddie came first. She always did. Her whole body shook as if attached to electrical attachments. She cried out, “Yes, yes, yes,” in a rising crescendo. This in turn brought me to climax and my whole body rocked in a delirious sensation. I was home with the love of my life, Maddie, and at peace with myself as a woman. The “Rat Pack” was finally behind me. Our little jaunt this evening to the Miramar O’Club had confirmed that. Andrew Crewson could now be relegated to a distant corner of my mind and would be rarely visited by Tiffany. On those infrequent occasions when I did, it was like watching a movie. That wasn’t me anymore. It was someone else. I, personally, didn’t know anyone named Andrew Crewson. It was like Cary Grant doing an impression of Cary Grant. The body and its shadow didn’t match.
 
 
CHAPTER 14: WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ANDY CREWSON?
 
 
Our Chardonnay bottle was empty, and the darkness surrounding our hillside home had taken on a life of its own. Maddie and I could no longer see the ocean. Night sounds prevailed. The Marine F-18s were long gone. They had probably returned to base. A slight chill was overtaking us. It was time to go inside. In unison as if by unspoken command, hand and hand, we did. In the kitchen, we stopped, faced each other, and paused.

Maddie was the first to speak. She was smiling; her voice was gentle and full of understanding: “You had quite a trip down memory lane, didn’t you, Tiff?”

“It was a blast,” I admitted. I was smiling too.

“Any regrets about whatever happened to Andy Crewson?’ she asked.

“None. I feel like Edith Piaf.” I replied truthfully. “Her signature song was ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien’ or ‘No, I regret nothing.’ That’s exactly how I feel. How about you?”

“The same.” She squeezed my hand.

We inched closer to each other until our breasts were touching. Ever so slowly we began to move our bodies so that our bosoms teased each other. The subtle friction of two Mauna Keas rubbing against two Mauna Loas was delightful. Each of us could feel distant tingling and other primeval body urges beginning to build. Maddie licked her lips. I pursed mine. Our hands began to roam “the old familiar places” of each other’s terra firma. We both knew that great sex was on the way. Who says grandmas can’t have fun?

Maddie’s suggestive grin was followed by a giggle. Then she purred, “I guess dinner’s on hold, huh?”

My answer was to deep throat her with a kiss wherein my tongue seemed endless. Almost as if we were synchronized swimmers, we eased into our bedroom and headed for our rendezvous in the large Hollywood bed that we had shared for so many years. A flurry of disrobing followed. Off came the tennis shoes, jeans, and sweatshirts. So did the panties and bras. Our respective Mauna Keas and Mauna Loas hung down and swayed considerably. They had long ago ceased to be divine shaped pears. Maddie started to get her sex toy bag out from under the bed. I already had mine out and was rummaging through it for my favorites. Just as we were ready to climb under the comforter blanket and begin our lovemaking on satin sheets, on the spur of the moment I suggested, “Maddie, dear, why don’t we do it the old way, you know with all the bells and whistles? We haven’t done that in a long time.”

“Tiffy, dear, that’s a splendid idea. You go girl!”

“You, too.” I blew her an air kiss.

With that, we slowed down our animal like haste to jump into our mattress lair and began to set the mood. It’s called foreplay. Between the two of us, soft, aromatic candlelights appeared, and a DVD with the sounds of one of our treasured musical scores filled the room. I quickly powered my body, jumped into one of my favorite old style pink, full-length slips with matching panties (they’re called vintage now), applied small dabs of perfume in strategic places, and liberal amounts of lipstick to my lips. Then, I hurriedly ran a brush through my air. Tiffany was on a roll.

Maddie’s preparations had been quite similar. Her garment of choice was a white baby doll negligee with matching bikini style panties. Both were loaded with lace and catered to every woman’s fantasy. It was as if a mature Carol Baker had stepped out of the movie, “Baby Doll,” and into our bedroom. Maddie was on a roll.

Shortly after that, we coupled and our sensations went off the page. Two old broads hit all the high notes and low notes as well. It was a concert of love. Tin Pan Alley would have been envious of us. Later while emotionally winding down during pillow talk before we fell into an exhausted sleep, the subject of what the future held for us came up. Neither of us knew or cared. We decided that we were both incurable romanticists and felt that the best was yet to come. We would have it all, and we almost did.
 
 
EPILOGUE
 
 
1973: MIKE RIORDAN, Lieutenant Commander, USN, was shot down over North Vietnam in late 1972 during Operation LINEBACKER. He was a Prisoner of War for five months. Upon repatriation in 1973, he returned to a hero’s welcome and parade at Navy Miramar. Two of the parade attendees who clapped the loudest for Commander Riordan were a tall, skinny blond in a flirty, halter dress, Madeline, and a taller, more athletic looking brunette in a willowy, summer dress with large, almost oversized sunglasses, Tiffany

1979: RANDY LEE, after serving as Commander, Naval Air Forces Pacific and spending 33 years in the Navy retired as a two-star Admiral in 1979 at a gala event at Navy Miramar on a sunny afternoon. Maddie and Tiffany were there for the flight line ceremony. They stayed discretely in the background and did not attend the reception that followed in the Miramar O’ Club. He and his ex-wife, Claire, remained good friends, but were never reunited. After his retirement, he went out to the Philippines, met, and married an attractive Filipino woman in her mid thirties. She bore him two children, a son and a daughter. He named the boy, Andrew and the girl, Tiffany. No doubt, psychiatrists would have a field day with his choice of names, and perhaps deservedly so. He is always the featured speaker at Fighting Squadron-77 reunions.

1989: CHARLIE PARKER, Lieutenant Commander, USN, was shot down also in late 1972, but over Laos. A large explosion was observed in the tail section of his aircraft. There was no chute. For years, he was listed as Missing in Action. Finally, a Joint P.O.W./M.I.A. Accounting Command (JPAC) Team found his aircraft and remains in a remote hillside above the Plain of Jars in 1989. A memorial service was held for him in the Naval Air Station Chapel at Miramar before his casket was escorted to his home of record in Elko, Nevada. The attendance was small. Two attractive and well dressed, middle-age women in black veils were observed at the service. The stoic of the two was Madeline. The one crying profusely was Tiffany.

1994: USS SHILO (CVA-35) was decommissioned in 1994 after 50 years of sailing in harm’s way. Commissioned in September 1944, it reached the Pacific in the final days of the war just in time for the Battle of Okinawa where it sustained a Kamakaze attack on its flight deck that put it out of action, but not out of operation. It steamed home under its own power for major repairs at Mare Island in San Francisco. Subsequently, it answered the call in the Korean War as a platform for Naval strike aircraft from the Pusan Perimeter to the Inchon Landing to the Hagaru-ri Resevoir to the stalemate at the 38th Parallel. When Vietnam reared its ugly head, SHILO was there from the inception of Yankee Station in 1965 to the evacuation of Saigon in 1975. 19 years later, it was considered excess to US defense needs and left the role of active duty warships. It was scrapped for metal and has probably been reduced to razor blades.

1995: NAVY FIGHTING SQUADRON 77 (VF-77) or the “Rat Pack” was decommissioned for the second time in August 1995. It like SHILOH was no longer considered vital to America’s defense needs. In World War II, it had the third highest shoot down record of any Navy squadron. 12 aces, one Medal of Honor, and three Navy Cross winners were on its roles. It sat out Korea, a victim of the post War cutback. When Vietnam flared up, however, so did the “Rat Pack.” Reactivated in December 1962, VF-77 spent most of its next 13 years in Southeast Asia on either Yankee or Dixie Stations. The squadron maintains exceptionally close ties to it former squadron mates. Lieutenant Andrew Crewson was its only MiG killer. He left the Navy in 1967, however, and his whereabouts are unknown. He does not attend biannual squadron reunions. The squadron always closes its reunions with a toast to Andy Crewson, “wherever he may be.” If they only knew!

1997: NAVAL AIR STATION MIRAMAR reverted to Marine Corps control in 1997 as part of a major realignment of bases and installations and is currently known as Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. It is in good hands. Navy and Marine pilots both wear “Wings of Gold” and are designated Naval Aviators. Tiffany and Maddie were in attendance on the fringes at the change of command ceremony. In their late fifties, now, they had aged beautifully, and when an occasion such as this required, they could still dress “to the nines.” They saw Rear Admiral Lee, USN, Retired and his new family from a distance. As always, he looked distinguished and was a magnet for attention. Tiffany thought she saw Captain Mike Riordan, USN, Retired, in the crowd, but wasn’t completely sure. On the other hand, Charlie Parker was there, at least in spirit. So were the rest of the “Rats,” the ones VF-77 had left behind on Yankee Station, in the Gulf of Tonkin, and in North Vietnam. Tiffany took a silent roll call and said a prayer. She and Maddie left early. Each had misty eyes.

2002: MADELINE discovered a small lump in her left breast in September 2001 during a routine self-exam that she performed periodically in the shower. It was diagnosed as cancerous and turned out to be the tip of an infested body system beyond saving. Chemotherapy was useless. She died at age 62 at home six months later in March 2002 while under heavy sedation for pain relief. Tiffany was at her side. Although not completely lucid, she knew who Tiffany was and what they meant to each other as she drew her final, tortured breath. They had been married for 35 years and were inseparable to the end.

2004: TIFFANY is alive and well and lives with her sister in San Francisco in a condo on Russian Hill that has a sweeping view of the Bay, especially, to the east. Back in the city of her birth, she favors gray permed hair, glasses, and an elegant, classic style in her clothes. Gone are the jeans, baggy sweaters, and knockabout shoes of her more recent years. A sophisticated city demands a sophisticated lady. Tiffany will not disappoint. On special occasions she is sometimes seen in seamed nylons, gloves, and a hat set at a jaunty angle. It is all very “retro” as they say now, but so is she. Unlike younger women, she enjoys the labor of climbing into a long-line bra, and an open bottom girdle with garter. Almost daily, particularly at sunset, she feasts her eyes on the recently closed Naval Air Station Alameda that she had visited many times back in her previous life as a Navy Pilot and which reminds her so much of Navy Miramar. Vicariously she roams the deserted hangars, flight line, ready room, Officers Club, and Bachelors Officers Quarters. For her, they are not really deserted. Instead, they are brimming with sailors of all ranks and rates, line personnel, maintenance technicians, and pilots from memories evergreen. On occasion, usually while sipping a martini in a long-stem-crystal glass, she mentally straps into her sleek F-8 Crusader, goes to full military power, releases the brakes, and begins her takeoff roll. Seconds later, she bangs the afterburner and is off in a flight of fantasy. Maddie, her soul mate, understood, but she is gone. Now her sister, Patricia, the one whose clothes Tiffany used to borrow furtively, helps to fill the void of Maddie’s sympathetic ear. Under a pseudonym for obvious reasons, Tiffany joined the Navy League and is active in promoting the goals of that fine organization. She labors tirelessly for young women to apply to the US Naval Academy, Naval ROTC, and for Naval Flight Training. From time to time she is tempted to attend a VF-77 or “Rat Pack” reunion in a haute courte, pink cocktail dress, but doesn’t quite know how to pull it off without becoming a “cause celebre.” Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. As an enthusiastic feminist, however, she would love to answer the question, “Whatever happened to Lt. Andy Crewson, USNR?” Maybe some day she will.