A Christmiss Story

 © 2004 by Nom de Plume

Will our scoundrel-turned-damsel survive the office holiday party? What will she find in her Christmas stockings? The continuing misadventures of Miss Anne Thrope, by the author of The Jessica Project.

* * *

The weekend! With my first week as a secretary finally at an end, I knew exactly how I was going to spend it: sleeping till noon, then watching football on TV while binging on bratwurst and beer.

When I woke up on Saturday at half past noon, I lolled in bed for another hour before I dragged myself into the kitchenette and made myself some extra-strong coffee. I downed my first cup with a cigarette while I watched the freezing rain beat against the windows of my tiny apartment. No matter — I wasn’t going anywhere for the next two days. I lit another cigarette and savored the blessed relief of not having to put on a dress, heels and stockings to endure another day of ridicule by my coworkers.

Tossing off my flannel nightgown, I returned to the bedroom and started sifting through the closet for something to wear for the weekend. As I feared, my tormentors hadn’t included a single pair of pants or jeans in my extensive trousseau. Finally I spied a hot pink jogging suit, and sure enough there was a pair of pink and white sneakers amongst the boxes of high heels. Well, how else would I be expected to maintain my girlish figure? After a quick shower, I pulled on the jogging suit, dismissing the thought of trying to find some underwear to go with it. It was odd, I said to myself as I ran a blow dryer through my hair. The strange sensation of wearing women’s lingerie had been intriguing, even arousing at first, but like any forbidden activity, dressing as a woman soon lost its fascination once it became my routine. Now I dreaded the daily chores of styling my hair, putting on my makeup, and trying to decide what to wear.

No such drudgery today. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and found a scrunchie to hold it back. Then I fired up my George Foreman grilling machine, stuffed it full of thick, juicy bratwurst, and popped the top on the first of many Heinekens. Ohio State was playing Michigan, and my troubles seemed far away as I got into the game while gorging myself on brats and throwing down beer after beer. The only thing that bummed me out was the endless progression of commercials featuring the Coors twins and hot chicks mud-wrestling over whether their beer was less filling or tasted great. I soon found myself becoming profoundly depressed by the grim realization that for the next year of my life, the only panties I would be getting inside were my own.

I was into my third brat and fifth beer when I heard I rap on my door. Who the hell could that be? The only good thing about the Consent Decree which doomed me to living as a woman was a proviso which shielded my new identity from the general public. Crushing out my cigarette into an overloaded ashtray, I weaved across the room and warily opened it a few inches. It was Donna Mae Trix, the Special Mistress appointed to oversee my transformation and adherence to the terms of the Consent Decree.

“Eew,” she said as she breezed into my apartment. “It smells like shit in here. Open a window, at least,” she said as she slid one of them up, ignoring the raindrops which pelted against the sill.

“What are you doing here?”

“The Consent Decree requires periodic inspections to confirm your compliance with the terms of the settlement.” Donna was looking incredibly hot in her tight jeans, turtleneck and leather vest, and even after everything she had done to me, I felt myself getting turned on. She appraised me with a critical eye, then glanced down at the stinking ash tray and the empty beer cans on the floor. “Well, it’s a judgment call,” she said at length. “On the one hand, you still look like a girl, even without any makeup. Your hair looks cute like that, by the way. On the other hand, this is hardly the way a woman would keep her home. And you’ll be lucky to hold onto your dress size if you keep making a pig out of yourself like this. Then again, you wouldn’t be the first single girl to blow up out of boredom. Most of us do it with ice cream. What is that horrible stuff you’re eating?”

“Bratwurst,” I said, slurring the word slightly. “Want one?”

“Good heavens, no! Out of the kindness of my heart, I will not declare your disgraceful conduct today to be a breach of the Consent Decree, but I want you to know how disappointed I am in your behavior.”

“You should have called first. I would have put on a dress and invited you over for a tea party.”

“Don’t press your luck, Missy.” For some reason, I found her domineering tone extremely arousing, and with no underwear to constrain it, my erection sprang to her attention. “My, my, what have we here,” she said with mock surprise as she stared at the bulge in my jogging suit. “Aren’t you wearing any panties?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I said coquettishly. She pushed me back on the sofa and before I knew it, my pants were down to my ankles and she was tearing off her jeans. “You’re no one to talk,” I said when I saw that she wasn’t wearing panties either. She pinned me down and began to rub her pussy against my aching cock.

“You realize what this means,” she said as she teased me to the brink of orgasm.

“What,” I moaned.

“This shocking display of manhood is a flagrant violation of the Consent Decree.”

“Screw the Consent Decree.” By that point I was so horny that I would have gladly agreed to start my year as a woman all over again in return for one good fuck. But Donna had something far more sinister in mind, and whether it was the alcohol or my raging testosterone, I was blind to her true intentions.

“There is an alternative,” she whispered as she brought me to the brink once again.

“Anything. I’ll do anything you say,” I sighed.

“Good. Oh God,” she panted as she lowered herself onto my rock-hard member. “I’ll have to give you another shot of hormones. Are you sure you want that?”

By then, I couldn’t have stopped her if she told me she was going to cut off my balls and flush them down the toilet. “Yes!” I cried as I felt my orgasm welling up deep inside me, and when I exploded inside her, I felt her shiver as her body responded to mine. When it was finally over, Donna collapsed onto my chest, and we lay there heaving as our hearts beat together. I was still in ecstasy when I felt a sharp pain in my right ass cheek. “Aargh! What was that?”

“Your hormones,” she said coolly as she put the spent hypodermic syringe back into her vest pocket. “As you know, the Consent Decree authorizes me to administer female hormones if necessary to modify your behavior. The shot I just gave you was much, much stronger than the dose you got before.” She got up and started putting her jeans back on.

“What will it do to me?”

“Let’s just say you could get away without wearing panties for the foreseeable future. Your balls are going to start to shrivel up, and as for your dick, well, you may have to sit down to pee.”

I suddenly felt terribly nauseous, and I barely made it into the bathroom before I began throwing up violently. The beer, the bratwurst, and my own bile poured out of me as I retched in despair. When I was finally finished, Donna poked her head into the bathroom. “Very good,” she said. “Bulimia is the perfect cure for bratwurst and beer. Most girls have to be taught that. I’m very proud of you.” I was racked with dry heaves as she left my apartment.

I was sick in bed the rest of the weekend, and was only able to get down a bowl of soup on Sunday evening. So much for losing my girlish figure.

* * *

Monday was like every other weekday: up at six thirty, an hour devoted to my hair and makeup, squirming into panties, bra and a slip, tugging on my pantyhose and trying to decide which skirt and top or dress to wear. On that particular day, I selected a knee-length black skirt and a white mock turtleneck, then padded into the kitchenette in my stocking feet to pour myself a bowl of cereal. I thought sadly about how I had pinched my pennies all week to be able to afford my big binge on Saturday, now literally down the drain. At least my stomach had returned to normal, and I felt almost myself again as I returned to my closet and put on my heels. Surveying the girl in the mirror as she tied a red scarf around her neck, my nausea began to return when I remembered what I had done to myself. I might as well be a male black widow spider who allowed his mate to eat him after one glorious fuck.

With that wretched thought, I put on my overcoat, picked up my purse and trudged out into the gloomy morning to catch my bus. The frigid air knifed through my stockings and up my skirt, and I was actually grateful when my bus came along to take me to the office to begin another day as a secretary. At least it was going to be a short week: Thursday was Thanksgiving, and the office was closed on Friday. When I got to the office, I hung up my coat on a hook in my cubicle and started going through my phone messages. “Anne, please stop by my office for some dictation.” “Anne, I need the Ripley files.” Anne this, Anne that…I remembered when I used to be Mr. Thrope, executive on the march, and not a lowly secretary referred to only by her first name.

The only good news was that my coworkers were starting to accept me for what I appeared to be, now that the novelty was wearing off. The best I could hope for was to be treated like any other secretary, and not some kind of pervert in women’s clothing. Maybe it was the holiday spirit, but some of the other girls actually started being nice to me when we crossed paths in the cafeteria or the ladies room, and I was no longer regarded as an object of scorn and ridicule as the days went by. Of course, I couldn’t tell what they were saying behind my back, but to outward appearances I was just one of the girls.

Everyone was talking about their plans for Thanksgiving. The thought of being cooped up in my little apartment for four days was too much to bear, and I was giving serious thought to volunteering to work in a soup kitchen when the telephone rang on Wednesday afternoon. It was Donna. “Hello, Anne. Got big plans for Thanksgiving?”

“You know I don’t,” I hissed. There was no way I was going to let what little family I had see me like this.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.

“Dreaming up more ways to fuck with me?” I said under my breath.

“You know, I feel badly about the way I treated you on Saturday. Why don’t you let me make it up to you?”

“Like how?”

“How would you like to have Thanksgiving dinner at my sister’s in Wisconsin?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“No, I mean it. It’ll be very informal, and nobody will know who you really are. In fact, we’ll have to get you some casual clothes. On me.”

The prospect of being able to wear something other than a dress and high heels for the weekend broke my resistance. “Really?” I asked hesitantly, wondering what I was getting myself into.

“Honest Injun. Your office closes early today, right?”

“They’re letting us off at three o’clock.”

”Meet me at Filene’s Basement on State Street at three fifteen.” She hung up before I could say no.

* * *

Early on Thanksgiving morning, I sat back in the passenger seat of Donna’s Audi as we crawled through holiday traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway. My hopes of getting some jeans or slacks at Filene’s had been dashed when pair after pair were too baggy in the hips, and we’d finally settled on a pleated kilt and a denim jumper, some opaque tights and a comfortable pair of flats. I wrung my hands nervously in the lap of my kilt while Donna wove in and out of traffic until she was able to hit cruising speed for the long drive north.

“How are things going at the office?” she asked me.

“Okay, I guess. I mean, the girls seem to have accepted me, or at least they’re pretending to.”

“That’s because they know the consequences if they don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everybody has been briefed on what will happen to the company if you leave.”

“I don’t get it.”

“The Consent Decree was part of a global arrangement with the Metabolean plaintiffs, who agreed to settle for a little less in return for your…humiliation. If you don’t last out the year as a woman, the company will be forced into bankruptcy.”

So I have some leverage, I said to myself as we cruised through the rolling woodlands. The question was, how could I turn it to my advantage? Donna seemed to sense what I was thinking. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said with a quick glance in my direction. “If the company goes down, they’ll take you with them.”

Maybe. I decided to change the subject. “Who will be at your sister’s house?”

“Let’s see, in addition to my sister and her husband, and their two kids, there will be my parents, my grandmother, my two brothers and their girlfriends, oh and I think a few of my cousins will be there too.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in. I’ve told everybody that you’re a…friend.”

“What kind of friend?”

“Well, if you must know, my family has always suspected that I’m gay, although it’s never discussed.”

“You mean they’ll think I’m your lesbian lover?”

“Not everybody. I doubt if my grandmother or the kids will pick up on it.”

“That’s just great.”

“Would you rather have them know that you’re really a guy?”

“No!”

“Didn’t think so. Look, if you want to bail out, I can drop you off in Milwaukee and you can take the bus back to Chicago.”

“What could be worse?”

“Come on, Anne, go with the flow. It will be a new experience for you.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. So far, everybody who’s seen me like this has known who I really am. Now you’re expecting me to fool your entire family.”

“Do the people you ride the bus with know you’re really a guy?”

“Well, no, but…”

“And how about the cashier at the grocery store? Or the sales girls at Filene’s yesterday? Did any of them have a clue?”

“No, but I didn’t have to sit down to dinner with them and carry on a conversation about my make-believe life.”

“I’ll do most of the talking for us. All you have to do is smile sweetly and help out with dinner.”

“What do you mean, help out?”

“It’s a family tradition that the men folk go deer hunting on Thanksgiving morning, while the women folk cook the turkey and all the trimmings.”

“This just keeps getting better and better.”

* * *

Two hours later, with an apron wrapped around my waist, I was standing in the kitchen helping Donna’s grandmother stuff the turkey while Donna sat in the corner gabbing with her mother and sister. Two brats were running around the house screaming, one of the brother’s girlfriends was on the phone, and the other women were concocting various dishes while they chattered on about their kids, husbands and boyfriends. I glanced over at Donna, who gave me a smile of encouragement before returning to her conversation, as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about inviting a man dressed as a woman to her family Thanksgiving. In fact, everybody else in Donna’s family seemed numbingly normal, and I wondered if they had any idea what she did for a living.

“Do you work with Donna in the big city?” her grandmother asked me. I had been standing in a corner trying to keep out of the way when she asked me to help her with the turkey, and rather than make a scene, I had meekly agreed. Donna’s mother had offered me her apron “to protect my pretty skirt”, and my hands were covered with goo as I helped her grandmother battle with the turkey. I was trying to think of a response when Donna came to my rescue.

“Anne works for a big drug company downtown,” she said from across the kitchen.

“How did you girls meet? I always wonder how single women cope with living in Chicago. The last time I was there, I was scared to death, and it was only for an afternoon of shopping at Marshall Fields.”

Her sister chimed in, “I’m sure Donna has lots of friends. How long have you two known each other, Anne?” she probed.

Just then the screen door banged open, and a gang of men dressed in orange vests barged into the kitchen. “You gals got dinner ready yet?” one of them boomed, while another one opened the refrigerator and took out a six-pack of Bud.

“Who wants a beer?” he said as he sized me up. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Her name is Anne,” Donna’s grandmother said with irritation. “Why don’t you boys go into the den and watch football or something. We have a lot of work to do here.” As the men retreated to watch TV, I caught the guy with the six-pack staring at my legs. Buddy, if you only knew what’s under these tights, I said to myself ruefully.

Once the turkey was in the oven, I melted into the background again, pretending to listen as the waves of female conversation broke all around me. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I drifted into the den and stood in the doorway, trying to catch the score of the NFL game on TV. My friend from the refrigerator slid over on the sofa to make room for me, and I reluctantly sat down beside him, tugging my kilt down over my knees as he draped his hairy arm over the cushion behind me. “How about a beer?” he burped.

“Come on, Jack, you know better than to offer the little lady a warm Bud,” one of the other guys teased us. “I’ll bet she’d like a nice glass of white wine, wouldn’t you, honey.”

Jack was up before I could respond, and when he returned a few seconds later with a glass of wine, I thanked him demurely as he sat back down beside me. “Who are you here with?” he asked.

“Donna.”

“Oh oh,” one of the guys blurted out. There were a few snickers from around the room, but Jack seemed undeterred. Maybe he liked the challenge. He was good-looking in a rough sort of way, and I’d no doubt he’d had his share of women. I started to get up to escape back into the kitchen when he put his hand on my wrist.

“What’s the hurry? You haven’t finished your wine.” His grip on my wrist tightened ever so slightly, and I felt myself tumbling into an abyss as I fell back onto the sofa. I sipped my wine nervously as I felt the eyes of every man in the room boring into me. Could they possibly be so clueless?

“How long have you and Donna been…together?” Jack asked me. The football game on TV was quite forgotten as the guys hung on every word. I decided to have a little fun with them.

“Since I split up with my husband,” I replied. “Donna was always there for me. In fact, you might say that she was the reason I ended my marriage.” I drained my glass of wine and crossed my legs provocatively. One of the guys was up in a flash, and he returned with the bottle of Chardonnay. I offered him my glass, and the only sound in the room was the announcer on TV bemoaning another fumble by the Detroit Lions. “Who’s winning?” I asked the group.

“Dallas,” the guys said in unison as I kicked off my flats and curled my legs up under my kilt.

“Oh dear.”

“Are you a Lions fan?” Jack asked me.

“No, I just hate the Cowboys. Their stupid cheerleaders are such bimbos.” They all stared at me as I drained my glass. “Now, if you boys will excuse me, I’d better go see if the gals need any help putting dinner on the table. Thanks for the wine,” I said, making a show of slipping my feet back into my shoes. I felt my kilt swirling around my knees as I spun on my heel and swayed out of the room.

* * *

Mercifully, Donna steered me to a seat between her and one of the brats, and I was able to survive the interminable dinner with a minimum of conversation. I caught Jack staring at me across the table a few times, and each time I turned to Donna and tried to make a little joke to evoke some laughter from her. Eventually, Jack gave up on me, and when we finally polished off the pumpkin pie and bread pudding, I felt like I was ready for another bout of bulimia. But I probably worked off half the calories slaving like a scullery maid in the kitchen with the rest of the women.

By the time we were finished, most of the men had passed out in the den in front of another football game, and the women actually seemed to be talked out. Donna guided me gently up the stairs when no one was watching, and she led me into the bedroom where we were to spend the night. It obviously used to be a kid’s room, and our suitcases (which one of her brothers had carried upstairs) were sitting on a pair of twin beds. There was a small bathroom down the hall, and we took turns removing our makeup and getting ready for bed. Donna went first, and by the time I returned, she was waiting up for me, her covers pulled up to her chin.

She watched intently as I removed my kilt and top, rolled off my tights, and took off my half slip, bra and panties. When she saw my naked body, she actually gave a little gasp. “What’s wrong?” I asked, fearing the worst.

“That shot of hormones I gave you last week must have been a doozy.”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed, pulling a flannel nightgown over my head. “I’m the same bedroom with a hot chick, and I couldn’t get a hard-on if my life depended on it.”

“It’s not just that, Anne. Have you looked at your chest?”

I pulled up my nightgown in a flash, and stood staring at myself in the mirror over the dresser. Sure enough, little titties were starting to grow. Not only that, I could swear that my ass and hips were starting to spread out too. I started to shake uncontrollably, tears running down my cheeks at the horror of what was happening to me.

“Come here,” Anne said gently.

I turned on her in impotent fury. “You did this to me, you bitch!” I shouted.

“Shhh, my family is probably lined up outside the door,” she whispered. “Come to bed.” With that, she pulled down her covers to reveal her naked body. The sight of her, and the realization that I might never again be able to love a woman, was too much for me. I lost it completely, shaking with sobs as I fell down beside her. Donna took me into her arms, pulled the covers up over us, and began to stroke my nubile breasts. I felt tingles up and down my spine, and my forlorn penis started to twitch in anticipation when she gently took one of my nipples between her teeth. “There now, it’s not so bad, is it?” she whispered while switching to the other breast, and before I could say anything, I felt her inserting her finger into my ass. Up, up it went, reaching and probing until it found my prostate gland. Suddenly the most exquisite feeling spread from my groin, up to my tummy and down to my toes, and my body was wracked with convulsions as the sweet waves of ecstasy went on and on.

I looked down to see my little penis, still soft, dribbling a few drops of semen onto my hairless thigh. Donna saw it too, and she gently sucked me clean. “Are you going to have to give me another shot?” I asked weakly.

“No, baby. That was a woman’s orgasm you just had. My turn now.” She spread her legs and waited for me to return the favor.

* * *

The next morning, we said our goodbyes after a hearty country breakfast and hugs all the way around. Jack tried to pinch my ass through my jumper, and I swatted him a little harder than he expected as Donna looked on. “I think Jack has a thing for you,” she said after we got back into her car.

“I’m a guy, remember?”

“Let’s talk about that.”

“Look, Donna, last night was amazing, but as soon as this is over, I’m gonna go back to being a guy.” I had been up half the night worrying about what was happening to me, and by morning I was resolved to put an end to the dangerous game that Donna was playing with me.

“It may be too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anne, I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’re a scientist so I’ll put it in terms you’ll understand. Right now, from a chemical standpoint, you have the body of a teenage girl going through puberty.”

“Now wait a minute. You may have forced me to take some hormones, but that doesn’t make a chick. I mean, even after everything you’ve done to me, I came last night, didn’t I? Okay, so it wasn’t the greatest, but I’ve had nights before when I couldn’t get it up. That doesn’t mean I can’t be a guy again, does it?”

“If you start taking heavy testosterone injections when your year is over, you should be able to reverse what we’ve done to you. Until then, your body’s hormonal balance will be female, and the changes which have already started will continue, even if you don’t take any more shots. For your sake, I hope you will let me keep you on maintenance doses of estrogen, otherwise you are going to be subject to radical mood swings and fits of depression which will only make things worse for you.”

“How could things get any worse?” I spit out the words, furious at myself for letting things get this far.

“Anne, if you go cold turkey on the hormones now, there’s a real chance that you could suffer a violent mood swing and blow the terms of the Consent Decree. Not only would you be screwed, but everybody in your company too.”

“Big fucking deal! They don’t give a shit about me. I’m just a fucking secretary.”

“I’m not talking about the suits. Think about the other secretaries, and all the little people who have been kind to you. They’re counting on you to pull this off so they can keep their jobs and support their families.”

“Why don’t you just cut off my balls to please them?”

“Don’t be silly. All I’m suggesting is that you let me keep you on an even keel for the rest of the year.”

“What will happen to me? Physically, I mean?”

“Well, the good news is that you should be able to start having erections again. Most of that is in your head, anyway. The bad news, if you want to call it that, is that your breasts are going to fill out, and your bottom too. Look at the bright side: you’ll be able to fit into those jeans we tried on at Filene’s. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” She reached over and started to stroke my knee through my silky white tights. “I promise I’ll make this experience as pleasant for you as I can. As you said, last night was amazing, and it was only the beginning.”

At the memory of our night in bed together, I knew that I was whipped. Why was she able to manipulate me so easily? “What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?” I heard myself ask her.

“I was very impressed by your skills in the kitchen, Anne. Why don’t we stop on the way home for some wine and provisions, and we can take turns cooking for each other when we’re not in bed.”

* * *

Several of the secretaries commented on the glow I had about me when we returned to the salt mines on Monday. Multiple orgasms will do that to a girl.

The week flew by, and I found myself coming up with little routines to help me pass the time. I had my nails done by some Koreans, experienced a makeover at the cosmetics counter at Marshall Fields, and had my hair cut into a perky shag at a salon that couldn’t tell at first that it was really a weave. I wondered whether Donna would like it, but after the girls at the office went on and on about how cute I looked, I stopped worrying.

At Donna’s suggestion, I even started thinking of myself as a woman. Whole stretches of the day would go by in which my true gender never entered my mind. That, and the daily hormone pills that I started taking, had me submerging deeper and deeper into my feminine role, until it was not so much a role as a lifestyle. It was so much easier not to resist what was happening to me. Of course, I knew that the hormones were eroding my resistance, but once I gave in to what was happening to me, I almost started to enjoy it.

Almost. I still hated my reduction in status at the company, my feet were in constant agony, and every time I had to use the ladies room I vowed to kill the man who invented pantyhose. Up with my dress and slip, down with my panties and hose, then the whole thing backwards after sitting down to pee — I took to keeping spare nylons in my desk to replace the ones I snagged or ran when I struggled with them in the stalls.

That weekend, Donna surprised me with an artificial Christmas tree, and we spent a wintry Saturday afternoon shopping for ornaments and lights. We tried Filene’s again, and this time I found a pair of jeans that fit my emerging hips. At Donna’s suggestion, I also bought some new bras with A cups, and sure enough, my burgeoning breasts filled them out nicely. When I commented that I didn’t look as stacked as I used to, she bought me a wonder bra, which made all the difference.

I was glowing again on Monday. When I found an invitation to the annual office holiday party sitting in my inbox, I was about to toss it when Gladys, one of the other secretaries, poked her head into my cubicle. “What are you going to wear to the party, Anne?”

“I don’t think I’ll go.”

“Come on, be a sport! The door prize is awesome this year.”

“Door prize?”

“Yeah, it’s only for us munchkins, so I guess you never paid any attention before…well, you know. Anyway, this year it’s a trip for two to Vail, all expenses paid!”

At the thought of skiing again, my heart surged with hope. I loved to ski, but it was out of the question on my secretary’s salary. Skiing was the one sport I’d be able to enjoy in my current state, since the equipment was unisex for all intents and purposes….

“Even if you don’t win, the food is great and everybody’s going,” Gladys persisted.

“Where is it?”

“It’s at the Sheraton this year.” A ten minute walk from my apartment.

“What am I supposed to wear?”

“Attagirl. Do you have a red dress?”

“I think so.”

“Just dolly it up with a Christmas broche or scarf and you’ll be darling, Anne. They have a huge selection at Carson Pirie Scott, I’ll help you pick something out on our lunch break.”

“Whatever.”

I busied myself with filing and expense reports for the rest of the morning, and when she poked her head into my cubicle again just before noon, I momentarily forget what she was there for. “Let’s get a move on,” she said as I put on my coat and swung my purse over my shoulder. “We’ll just have time to beat the rush at the deli downstairs and finish our shopping if we hustle.”

“How can you expect me to hustle in these heels,” I said.

“What you need, girl, is a good pair of boots. Come on, if we hurry we’ll have time to shop for them, too.”

“Aren’t they really expensive?”

“Haven’t you heard of credit cards?”

“Mine all got taken away when…well, you know.”

“Well, get some new ones, for Heaven’s sake! Look, if I can carry around Discover, Visa and MasterCard, anyone can.” I felt like a babe in the woods as she schooled me on how to survive in the big city on a working girl’s salary. When we found a great pair of boots at Carson Pirie Scott, the sales associate told me I could get an extra ten percent off if I opened a charge account, and before I knew it I was the proud owner of a comfortable pair of boots and my first credit card in the name of Anne Thrope. Gladys found me a pretty scarf with reindeers on it, and I even charged a pair of glittery pantyhose to wear with my red dress.

* * *

The party was scheduled to start at eight o’clock on the Friday before Christmas. When I told Donna that the other girls wanted me to go, she backed them up enthusiastically. “This will be great for you, baby. Just don’t let yourself get caught under the mistletoe.”

“Not much to worry about there. A guy would have to get pretty drunk to make that mistake.”

“You never know.”

“Will I see you this weekend?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to be tied up.”

“All weekend?”

“Yep.”

I had a sinking feeling. “When will I see you again?”

“I’ll call you soon. Have a great time at the party.”

I wondered what was wrong as I went through the motions to get ready for the party. Maybe Donna didn’t like my new hairdo? Could it be something I’d said? I tried to put her out of my mind, but it was impossible not to be reminded of her by each little feminine thing that I did to myself. God, I’m beginning to think just like a woman, I thought sadly as I searched my closet for a pair of red heels to wear with my Christmas stockings.

I treated myself to a taxi to the Sheraton, not feeling safe alone on the streets after dark. With my Christmas scarf tied gaily around my neck, and bright red lipstick to match my dress and shoes, I turned a lot of heads when I walked into the ballroom where the party was in full swing. Gladys took me under her wing, and together we made our way through the bar and buffet lines. We carried our plates to a table occupied by a bunch of other girls, some of whom I knew and some of whom regarded me with open curiosity. One of them, who must have been on her fifth or sixth brandy and ginger, couldn’t take her eyes of me. “Are you sure you’re really a guy?” she finally blurted out.
If that wasn’t bad enough, two of the junior executives that I worked for came up to our table and went on and on about what a great secretary I was, how much they were going to miss me when I went back to being a man, and how they hoped that I’d like being a girl so much that I’d never go back. Miss Brandy Ginger told them to shove it, and I was shaking when Gladys suggested that we visit to the ladies room. We were halfway there when we got separated in the crowd around the dance floor. After searching for her for a few minutes, I gave up and headed for the ladies room. I was almost there when I came face to face with Richard Sharkman, the tight-assed executive who had taken my place as vice president.

“I’d ask you to dance, but I’m afraid they might start talking about us,” he said with a phony smile. I tried to pass him, but he put his hand on my shoulder. “What’s your hurry, Anne? I’ve been meaning to ask you how you’re getting along in your new life.”

I had to remind myself that Sharkman was a senior executive with considerable power over my destiny. If I were to have any chance of redeeming myself at the company, his support could be crucial. On the other hand, he probably regarded me as a threat — if he took me seriously. I decided to play it safe. “I’m doing as well as I can under the circumstances.”

“I must say, you look marvelous. How do you do it?”

“Pardon?”

“Your hair, your makeup, the way you dress…one would almost think you’d been doing this all your life.”

“I don’t know whether that’s a complement or an insult.”

“Believe me, it’s a complement.” It was obvious that he had been drinking, heavily. “I find it all fascinating.”

Oh God…what if he had a thing for chicks with dicks? I tried to break away, but he took my hand and tried to steer me towards the elevators. “I’ve taken a room upstairs. Why don’t we get to know each other a little better?”

I twisted my hand, but weakened as I was by estrogen, I couldn’t get away from him. Couldn’t anybody see what was happening? I looked around, but everybody seemed to be in the ballroom, and the din from the dance band would drown out my cries for help. Where was Gladys? I felt myself being dragged towards the elevators. “Let’s get out of here,” Sharkman said.

Without thinking about the consequences, I kicked him right in the shin with the point of my high heel. He hit the floor with a thud, and before he could get back up I jumped into an elevator. I was waiting for the doors to close when I heard the voice of the assistant director of human resources coming over the PA system. “We have the winner of the trip to Vail,” he announced. It was Gladys.

* * *

There was no word from Donna all weekend. I phoned in sick on Monday, hanging around my apartment miserably. The only call I had was from Gladys, who was anxious to know if I was all right.

“I’m okay. Got a touch of the flu, I guess. Congratulations on winning the trip.”

“I’m so excited! My boyfriend and I are going to go in February.”

“That’s great. Tell me, have you seen Mr. Sharkman?”

“Sure, why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“Like every year, he came on to half the women at the party.”

“Really?”

“He was bombed out of his mind, as usual. One of the girls said he was so drunk he fell down. He probably doesn’t remember a thing. But on Monday, he was right back at his desk.”

I wasn’t so sure. “I’m going to stay out till after Christmas.”

“Good idea. It’s dead around here. Have a great holiday!”

Christmas eve was the longest day of my life. I just sat there in my dreary apartment, looking at the tree that Donna had brought me, feeling very, very sorry for myself. I had a lot of time to think about my life, about the suffering that I had caused so many women by recklessly exposing them to Metabolean. If this was my penance, I deserved much worse.

I was about to turn in early when I spied an envelope just inside my door. How long has this been on the floor, and how did it get here, I wondered. Angels? When I opened it, I held my breath. It was a Christmas card from Donna. “Meet me at Lawry’s at nine o’clock. Wear something special.”

I raced into the kitchenette and looked at the clock on the microwave. It was almost eight thirty! Near panic, I tore off my jeans and top and dashed into my closet. What to wear? It had to be the red dress, reindeer scarf and crimson lipstick that knocked them dead at the holiday party, only this time I wore my new boots with my glittery stockings. I was getting pretty good at this, and by ten minutes to nine I was out on the sidewalk, trying desperately to hail a cab. On Christmas eve! The street outside my apartment was deserted, so with grim determination I started running down the sidewalk towards Michigan Avenue, thankful for my comfy boots as I covered the five blocks to Lawry’s. It was a few minutes past nine when I emerged from the night into the elegant lobby, panting with exertion. I handed my coat to the attendant and chanced a quick trip to the ladies room. My shag was so easy to take care of, after a quick once over I was trying to look ladylike while presenting myself to the maitre d’.

“May I help you, Miss?”

“Trix, party of two.”

He looked down at his book. “I show a reservation for Trix, but the other party is not here yet. Would you like to wait at the table?”

“That would be nice,” I said, and I followed him to a quiet banquette resplendent with linen, crystal and silver. I had barely sat down when I saw a familiar face entering the room.

Familiar, yes, but so utterly different! It was Donna, all right, with a full beard and mustache, dressed in a double-breasted suit, crisp white shirt and Hermes tie. I stared open-mouthed as she, or rather he, slid into the seat beside me. “Sorry I’m late,” he said in a husky voice before he kissed me on the cheek.

“Donna, is that you?”

“It’s Donald, at least for now, but you can call me Don.”

“What did you do to yourself?”

“You’re one to talk.” The wine steward materialized, and Don ordered an expensive bottle of French champagne. When we were alone again, he said, “I guess I owe you an explanation, so here goes: as you can probably imagine, I have a lot of…issues in terms of my own gender identity. I mean, you don’t become a dominatrix overnight. I’ve struggled with it for years, but it wasn’t until I met you that I decided to live out my dreams.”

“What did I have to do with it?”

“Everything! You showed me that if I had the courage to try, I might be able to succeed in switching sexes. The way you pulled it off with my family on Thanksgiving was so amazing. I never really intended to fall in love with you that night, but that’s what happened.” He took my hand and kissed me again, gently on the lips this time. “Then there’s the other thing you did that made this all possible.”

“What?” I whispered.

“Did you know that there is a huge black market for Metabolean? It’s selling for $100 a pop in Boys Town.”

“But why?”

“It turns out that Metabolean is a perfect a catalyst for hormone replacement therapy, allowing the transition from female-to-male in a matter of days. Just look at me.”

“Are you going to stay that way?”

“That all depends on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“When your year as a woman is over, if you decide to go back to being a man, Metabolean will help you make the transition almost instantly. And if you do, I guess I’ll check into Cassandra’s.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, Anne.”

Who would have thought that a misanthrope could find true love, and sweet goodness, in the hands of a dominatrix? When I felt Don’s hand sliding up my Christmas stockings, my whole body trembled as a delightful orgasm swept over me, and I must have moaned like Meg Ryan.

“Are you okay?” Don asked with alarm.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” I smiled serenely. “Santa just left a little present in my panties.”

Happy New Year from the author of Skylord, coming in early 2005
Skylord.

A Murder Misstery

by Nom de Plume

 
When I rolled out of bed that fateful morning, I had no way of knowing that it would be my last day as Matt McCoy. After showering and dressing quickly (how I long for those days!) I bolted out the door for my train, looking forward to another manic day on the floor. Although I was one of the youngest traders at the Chicago exchange, I was becoming feared and respected for my cunning and balls…another detail which was soon to change.

I grabbed a bagel and a cup of coffee at the station and wolfed them down on the train, absent-mindedly flipping through the Tribune. My heart stopped when I came to this article:

PROMINENT BROKER ARRESTED

CHICAGO — Norman Wolf, CEO of Piranha and Wolf, has been charged by federal authorities with bilking thousands of elderly investors throughout Chicagoland. Wolf, who was taken into custody last night at his Lakeshore Drive home, proclaimed his innocence, maintaining that a rogue employee masterminded the scheme for his personal self-enrichment. Authorities declined to identify Wolf’s alleged accomplice, stating only that their investigation was ongoing and additional arrests were expected.

My hands were shaking as I dropped the paper to the floor. When I questioned him about some questionable activities I’d come across working late one night, Norman Wolf had assured me that everything was on the up-and-up. He even took me out to lunch one day and involved me in some of his dealings. Now, I was convinced that he was setting me up, and that he would try to finger me to save his skin.

Furtively, I glanced around the train, expecting to see policemen heading my way with guns drawn. But there were only the other passengers, either engrossed in their papers or asleep, as we pulled into Clybourn, the last stop before Chicago. If the cops were onto me, they’d be waiting at the end of the line. Without thinking, I vaulted over the passenger next to me and raced for the door, just making it out onto the platform before the train pulled away.

Shivering in the freezing February gloom, I tried desperately to think. Going back to my apartment was out of the question. Until I could figure out a way to clear myself, I’d have to lay low, keeping out of sight until the heat was off. Fortunately, I had no family or close friends in Chicago, only my girlfriend Tracy, a flight attendant who lived with two other girls in an apartment near O’Hare. I flipped open my cell phone and punched in her number.

“Hello?” a groggy voice answered.

“Tracy, it’s me.”

“God, don’t you know what time it is? I flew all night and I just got to sleep.”

“Sorry, baby. Are your roommates there?”

“No, you didn’t wake anyone else up. Just me, and I’m gonna hang up.”

“Tracy, I’m in trouble and I need your help.”

* * *

It took some doing, but after a long walk to Armitage I caught the “L” downtown and rode the Blue Line out to the Rosemont station, a few long blocks from Tracy’s apartment. I don’t know which of us was more frazzled when she finally let me in. Standing there in her robe without any makeup, even after working all night, she was a sight for sore eyes.

“Thanks for taking me in,” I said after a long hug. “Are you sure you want to harbor a fugitive?”

“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” she replied as she poured us each a cup of steaming black coffee. “Why not just turn yourself in? The FBI will believe you if you tell them the truth.”

“You don’t know Norman Wolf. All the way here I’ve been replaying little scenes at the office which didn’t make sense to me before, but they do now. He was setting me up all along, Tracy.”

“Well, what are you going to do?”

“I need a disguise and a place to stay until I can figure things out.”

“You could stay here, I guess…”

“What about your roomies?”

“Cathy just left for training in Denver, and Ashley is on vacation till the end of the week.”

“That works. Now all we need is to come up with a disguise, something that will enable me to move around until I can clear my name.”

“Hmm…” Tracy walked around the room, surveying me with a critical eye. “Stand up and take off your jacket,” she said, disappearing into the bedroom.” I did as I was told, and she returned with a tape measure. “Raise your arms,” she said, and I stood there while she drew the tape around my chest, then around my waist, then once more a little lower. “How tall are you?”

“Five nine.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“One fifty.”

“And your shoe size?”

“Nine.”

“Perfect,” she giggled. “Come with me.” I followed her into the large walk-in closet that she shared with the other girls. It was crammed full of clothes, shoes and accessories. All of a sudden it hit me, and I backed out of the closet in a panic. “Come back here!”

“No way!” I trembled.

“Listen, mister, you asked me to help you come up with a disguise, and I did. You’ll fit into my clothes, Cathy’s feet are as big as yours, and Ashley has a wig in here somewhere that she used to wear on layovers.”

“I’m not gonna dress up as a chick!”

“Why not? Are you afraid of what people might think?”

“Damn right!”

“Well, let’s see how you look first. When I’m finished with you, I don’t think anybody will be able to tell that you’re really a guy.”

“Yeah, right,” I said nervously. Maybe that was what I was so afraid of, afraid that my masculinity might be threatened. Had I only known, I’m sure I would never have taken that first fateful step, but I was desperate, Tracy was sincerely trying to help me, and what choice did I have?

“May I take that as a yes?”

I hung my head in resignation. “I guess we can try it,” said with a sigh.

“Attagirl. Now, if this is gonna work we’ve gotta start from the skin out. Take off all your clothes.”

“Okay, but what do you mean ‘from the skin out’?” I asked as I unbuttoned my shirt.

“I mean this has gotta go,” she said with a tug on my chest hair.

“Oh no, you don’t!” I protested.

“Listen, silly, if you expect me to make you believable as a girl, you’re gonna have to work with me.”

“I’m sorry, Tracy, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Suit yourself,” she said in a huff. “I’d just as soon go back to sleep anyway.” She tossed my shirt at me, and I was buttoning it back up when the telephone rang. “Hello?” She shot me a hard glance. “Uh, no, I haven’t seen him, why?” Her eyes widened. “Really! Wow, that’s unbelievable, thanks for letting me know.” She hung up and grabbed the TV remote.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Tracy ignored me, flipping through the channels until she came to a local news station. We both stared speechless as my picture came up on the screen. “According to the FBI, Matt McCoy is suspected of masterminding a scheme to swindle thousands of elderly investors out of their life savings,” a reporter was saying.

I felt sick to my stomach. “This can’t be happening.”

“Just be thankful that you found out about it before you walked out of here,” she said. “You knew this was coming down. Matt, are you sure you’re telling me the truth?”

“Tracy, you’ve got to believe me!” I started to cry, and she took me into her arms.

“I’m here for you, baby,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry I was so stupid. Please help me. I’ll do anything you say.”

* * *

The bathroom in Tracy’s apartment was strewn with nylons hanging out to dry. They might be falling out of fashion, but not in an apartment shared by three flight attendants. Tracy wore pantyhose every day as part of her uniform, and soon I’d be wearing them too, I thought morosely as I shaved my legs in her bathtub. My arms too, then my chest and underarms, and finally Tracy came in to finish off my back. “You look buff,” she said after I toweled myself off.

“You mean you like me this way?” In spite of all I’d been through, I felt myself starting to stir.

“You’re just like a movie star,” she purred. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to make love to a wanted fugitive.” I chased her into the bedroom and we tumbled into bed. The feeling of our smooth bodies touching was incredibly arousing, and we went at with abandon. Tracy had always been a gentle lover, but today she was like a tigress, with some newfound power. “Wow,” she sighed when we finally came up for air.

“Let’s do it again,” I said, even though my body was totally tapped out. I dreaded what was about to happen to me.

She teased my exhausted manhood. “Now that I’ve softened you up, we’re going to turn you into a girl,” she pronounced. “Come on, get out of bed. We have some serious work to do.” With a sigh, I got up and we put on terrycloth bathrobes which she’d stolen from some hotels. After I shaved my face again, Tracy was all business. First she went to work with an emery board, smoothing and shaping my longish nails. Next, she tweezed my eyebrows, and when I yelped she told me to stop being such a baby. She helped me moisturize my tender skin, and then it was time to get me dressed.

“What am I going to try on?” I asked nervously.

“Let’s start with one of my old uniforms. I used to be a little chubby before I met you, so it should fit just fine.”

I cringed at the thought. “Don’t you have something more casual?”

“Listen, missy, I’m a working girl and my wardrobe is somewhat limited. Once we find out whether you’re presentable, maybe we can do a little shopping, okay?” That shut me up, and I reluctantly followed her back into the closet.

“Your hips are slim enough for you to wear my panties,” she said matter-of-factly. I cringed when she handed me a lacy white pair, and I watched her smirk as I tugged them on. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? This may seem a little strange,” she said as she handed me one of her bras. I watched sullenly as she draped it over my chest and showed me how to fasten the clasps from behind. After Tracy stuffed the cups with some knee-highs, she pushed me over to her vanity and went to work on my makeup. I watched with alarm as she methodically feminized my face, leaving me with smoky eyes and pouting pink lips.

Next came Ashley’s wig, and the effect was shocking. One minute, I was a guy in a bra and panties, and the next, I was totally a girl. I could only gape and stare as Tracy gently styled my short blonde hair into a perky wedge.

Tracy seemed mesmerized by her creation. “This is scary,” she whispered.

“Tell me about it.” How could it be so easy to erase my gender? I followed her back into the closet in a trance.

“Okay, put this on first,” she said, handing me a crisp white blouse. “Oh wait, I almost forgot.” She left me standing there, surrounded by racks of skirts and dresses, contemplating my misfortune. When she returned she was holding a lacy white slip. “This will help to smooth you out,” she said. “No, don’t pull it over your head, you’ll muss your hairdo. Step into it.” Reluctantly, I did as I was instructed, and a shiver ran down my spine as the cool, silky fabric slid up my hairless body. “That’s better, now put on your blouse.” My hands were shaking, and I fumbled helplessly with the buttons until I realized that they were backwards from what I was used to. Eventually I figured them out, and although the blouse was a little tight around my shoulders, the last button left me with just enough room to breathe.

“Time to put on your nylons,” Tracy said with a snicker.

“Do I have to? You never wear them when we go out.”

“I do when I go to work. Besides, they’ll make your legs look more feminine. Anyway, they’re part of your uniform, so get with the program!” She handed me a pair of navy blue pantyhose and showed me how to ease them on, one leg at a time. After that, my blue skirt was almost an anti-climax, and I felt trapped when she zipped it up.

There was a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door, and I watched my reflection in dismay as Tracy lifted up my skirt and tugged down my blouse and slip. Then it was time to step into a pair of Cathy’s low-heeled blue pumps, which just fit. “We’ll practice walking around in them in a minute,” Tracy said as she tied a silk scarf loosely around my neck. A blue jacket was next, and again it was a little tight around the shoulders but it buttoned up all right.

“Almost done,” Tracy said. I followed her over to the dresser, and stood there in her clothes while she tried some jewelry on me. “I can’t remember who gave me these clip-ons,” she said as she fussed with my earrings, and a simple gold necklace and an inexpensive woman’s watch were next. Then she sat me down at her vanity and started to apply a coat of quick-dry polish to my nails. As I sat there, I looked down at my silken knees, peeking demurely under the hem of my slim skirt. Never in my life had I felt so helpless and confined.

When my nails were dry, we went back to the kitchen and Tracy made some more coffee. We sat there for a while, sipping our coffee in silence, while I gradually got used to the strange sensations of wearing women’s clothing. “I can’t believe how cute you look,” Tracy marveled.

“Thanks, that’s all I needed to hear.”

“Take it as a compliment. If you looked like a guy in a dress, this disguise would never work. Now, if we can only do something with your voice, I really think you can pull it off.”

“My voice?”

“Try talking a little softer, and raise your pitch a little.” For the next half hour, we chatted like two girls as she worked on my voice. I was beginning to get the hang of it when the doorbell rang.

Tracy saw the panic in my eyes. “Relax, it’s probably just the lady next door. She waters the plants when we’re all away. Sit still, you look totally like a girl now, it will be a good test for you.” Before I could protest, Tracy got up and opened the door.

“FBI,” a deep voice said. “Are you Tracy Flowers? Do you mind if we come in?” Tracy tried to slam the door but it was too late, and two middle-aged special agents in suits and ties entered the apartment. Tracy was beside herself, and I was worried that she might give me away. Sheer instinct for self- preservation took over. “Why don’t you go change, Tracy? Can I get you guys some coffee?”

Tracy ran into the bedroom and slammed the door. “I’m sorry we barged in on her in her bathrobe,” one of the agents stammered.

Keep it short and sweet, I reminded myself before I spoke. “That’s okay, she’s a big girl. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black for me.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” the other agent said as he prowled around the apartment. “Do you live here?”

There was no time to think, so I just went with the flow. “Uh huh.” I reached up into one of the cabinets for a mug, very aware that my skirt was riding up my legs, and after I filled it with coffee I offered it to the agent, trying to keep my gestures as feminine as possible.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Ashley.” In her wig, I looked almost like her, not that they would know what she looked like anyway…keep your cool, girl, I told myself.

“Do you know Matt McCoy?”

“Tracy’s boyfriend? I’ve met him, why?”

“Let’s wait for your roommate.” That was the opening I needed, and before they could stop me I walked over to the bedroom and closed the door firmly behind me. Tracy was sitting on the bed, still in her bathrobe, shaking with sobs.

“Listen carefully,” I whispered. “They think I’m Ashley.” Her eyes widened. “You’ve got to play along. Quick, put on some clothes and when you come back, just tell them that you haven’t seen or heard from Matt since yesterday. Got it?” She nodded dumbly. “Come on, Tracy, get with it!”

When she finally got up to get dressed, I returned to face the agents. “She’ll be here in a minute,” I said breezily. “Some more coffee for you?”

“You must be a very good flight attendant.” I ignored the sexist remark and sat down on the sofa. It occurred to me that the men were staring at my legs. I crossed them slowly and tugged at the hem of my skirt, waiting for them to make the next move. Just then Tracy opened the bedroom door, dressed in jeans and a hoodie. I gave her an encouraging wink, and she sat down beside me on the sofa.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Miss Flowers, and thank you for your time. When is the last time you saw Matt McCoy?”

“Last Saturday.”

“Where was that?”

“He took me to a movie, and then we came back here for a while.”

“Have to spoken with him since?”

“No.”

“Is that unusual?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, doesn’t he call you on the phone sometimes?”

“It depends. He knows I travel a lot. I just got back from a trip this morning,” she answered, trying to keep to the truth whenever she could. I felt so strange, sitting there in women’s clothing, watching the men ogle my legs while Tracy described me like I wasn’t in the room. I tugged my skirt down over my knees again and prayed that she wouldn’t give me away.

“Were there any messages from him on your machine?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is right now?”

“Look, I’ll be very honest with you,” Tracy said as I held my breath. “One of my girlfriends called me a few hours ago and told me that Matt was wanted by the police. I saw his picture on TV.”

“Was that news to you?”

“Yes! What kind of girl do you think I am?”

“Did you try to get in touch with him after you heard about it?”

“No! Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“What they’re saying about him. Is he really a criminal?”

“We’re really not at liberty to discuss our investigation.” They handed Tracy their cards. “Please call us immediately if you hear from him. Thank you again for your cooperation.”

Tracy got up to let them out. “And thank you, sweetie,” the agent who had the coffee said to me before they left.

Tracy waited until they were well down the hall before bolting the door and collapsing next to me on the sofa in near hysterics. I couldn’t tell whether she was laughing or crying, but the tears were real, and she hugged me close. When I tried to comfort her, she shushed me with a kiss, and the next thing I knew she was stroking my legs through my nylons. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever felt, and I started to lose control as she reached up my skirt and tugged down my pantyhose and panties…then she had her jeans off and she was straddling me, riding up and down, panting and yelping until we came together in an incredible rush.

* * *

Afterwards, I lay back in a daze, trying to come to grips with what was happening to me. I’d just had the best sex of my life, in woman’s clothing, with my girlfriend on top. My lipstick was smeared all over her beautiful face, and our hairless legs were tangled up in my panties and stockings. When she finally rolled off me, I got unsteadily to me feet and began to pull myself together. “You’ve ruined my stockings,” she pouted, pointing to a long run that ran from my toes to my waist. “Take ‘em off, and I’ll get you a fresh pair after we fix your makeup. You’re a total mess!” A subtle shift in our relationship was occurring, although I was so distracted by my female trappings, I didn’t notice it at the time.

After showing me how to put on a fresh coat of lipstick, Tracy handed me another pair of pantyhose, nude this time. It was humiliating to struggle with them under her watchful eye. When I finally got them on, she disappeared into the bathroom to shower and change.

I stepped back into my heels and stared at myself for a long time in the full length mirror. Looking back at me was a pretty flight attendant with perky blonde hair and terrific legs. I turned this way and that, practicing ways to stand and move my hands to make myself look more feminine. The more I studied myself, the more convinced I became that Tracy was right: my disguise was perfect, and with a little practice there was no way anyone would detect that I was really a guy.

That brought me back to reality, and I was thinking of ways to get close to Norman Wolf when Tracy returned to the closet. She had zero makeup on, her hair was pulled back into a bun, and her bra and panties were soon covered by a thick sweater and baggy khakis. “Are you trying to look like a guy?” I asked as she pulled on a pair of trouser socks.

“One of us has to wear the pants around here,” she taunted me. “I thought I’d take you out to lunch, then maybe we can do a little shopping so you won’t have to wear my clothes. How are you fixed for cash?”

“We got our bonuses in January, so I’m flush…uh oh!”

“What?”

“If the feds are looking for me, how am I going to get into my bank account?”

“Like any working girl, use your ATM to take out as much cash as you can every day.”

“Hmm….they’ll be watching my account, and once they see that I’m using an ATM machine in Rosemont, they’ll be all over you.”

“This is true…how about if you write a big check to me, only date it like a week ago, and I’ll cash it for you?”

“I really don’t want to get you in trouble, Tracy…say, does Ashley have any ID around here?”

“Clever girl! You do look an awful lot like her now. Let’s see, she may have left her airline credential when she went on vacation, let me check.” Sure enough, Ashley’s photo ID was in a drawer of her nightstand, and it bore an uncanny resemblance to me in her wig.

“Okay, only I’ll have to go downtown to one of the big branches of my bank.” I retrieved my wallet from the pile of guy clothes on the closet floor and found the blank check I always carried with me. After I made it out to Ashley in the amount of $5,000, I was about to stuff it into the pocket of my little blue jacket when Tracy started to laugh. “Girls don’t carry their money like that, dear,” she explained. She went into the closet and came back with a navy blue purse and one of her old wallets. “Here, let’s set you up like a proper woman.” Soon my purse was chock full female essentials like lipstick, a compact, a brush, tissues, and a nail file in addition to the wallet.

After Tracy put on a pair of sturdy shoes, a wool cap and a pea coat, she loaned me one of her uniform topcoats and a pair of women’s gloves, and we were off. I was very self-conscious at first, and Tracy had to tell me to smile and act natural. “Stand up straight…stop staring at your feet!” she scolded me. When we stepped outside, the winter wind whipped my skirt and coat around my knees, and the frigid air cut through my stockings like a knife. “Now I know why you’re wearing pants!” I groaned.

“Better get used to it, sweetheart. You look like a girl dressed like that, but I don’t know how convincing you’d be in pants.”

“Whatever,” I sighed. My girlish voice was becoming a little more natural to me, and we bantered back and forth to take our minds off my troubles.

“Hungry?” she asked me.

“Starving.”

“Okay, let’s find someplace where I can teach you how to eat like a girl.”

It dawned on me that Tracy was acting more and more in charge, almost like she was the guy. “You’re digging this, aren’t you?” I asked.

“If you’re asking me whether I’m happy that my boyfriend is on the ten most wanted list, the answer is no.”

“But you are digging the fact that I have to act like a chick.”

“I have to admit, it’s been a blast so far. Watching you try to pretend you’re a girl is a hoot, and you gotta admit, the sex was amazing.”

Just thinking about it made me stir again, which was a very uncomfortable feeling. I closed my eyes and tried to forget about my manhood, trapped and throbbing in its silken prison. At least my tight skirt and heels made it impossible for me to walk like a man, and it was a struggle to keep up with Tracy.

We arrived at the Rosemont station, and I fished awkwardly through my purse for money to pay for our tickets to Chicago on the Blue Line. Fortunately, the station was almost deserted at that hour, and a train came along in a few minutes. As soon as we found our seats, I kicked off my heels and flexed my aching toes, which were cold under my stockings. Tracy smiled sympathetically before she closed her eyes to catch some sleep.

Instead of looking out for cops, I studied the faces of other passengers for any indication that they saw through my disguise, but once again everyone else was either reading or sleeping. As we rolled through the Chicago suburbs, I actually closed my eyes and nodded off for a few minutes. Without realizing it, I was getting more and more used to myself as a woman.

We woke up with a start when the train went underground for the final run into downtown Chicago, and soon we were making our way through the crowded concourse, looking for a place to eat. Nothing appealed to us, then Tracy had an inspiration and we rode up the escalator to State Street. Once again, I cursed my fate as the winter weather knifed through my nylons, and as we made our way towards Macy’s, it occurred to me that I was the only person on the sidewalk, man or woman, showing any leg. “Look at me! I’m the only dumb-dumb in a dress!”

“Poor baby! We’ll get you some tights and boots after lunch.”

Although we were both famished, I saw a branch office of my bank across the street, and I told Tracy to wait outside. She gave me a little kiss on the cheek for good luck after I instructed her to melt away in the crowd if I was apprehended. There was a long line waiting for tellers, but it moved quickly, and soon I was face to face with a young woman who scrutinized my check, then my ID, then me. “Do you have an account with us?” she inquired.

“No.”

“It should be all right, since the check is drawn on one of our accounts. It’s just that the amount is so large, I’ll have to get an assistant vice president to approve it.” My knees were shaking while we waited for an unctuous man to appear, but after he looked me over and glanced at my ID he scribbled his initials and the teller began counting out hundred dollar bills. As soon as she was through counting it all twice, I stuffed the wad into my purse and beat a hasty retreat.

Tracy had a relieved smile on her face when I joined her outside. “Can we add forgery to your list of firsts today?” she asked.

I stuck out my tongue at her. “Better be nice to me if you want me to pay for lunch.”

We crossed the street again and continued on our way towards Macy’s, still thought of by Chicagoans as Marshall Fields. After we went through the revolving door into the vast department store, I gratefully unbuttoned my topcoat and peeled off my gloves. It was unnerving to see my manicured fingers again, just another reminder of my newfound femininity, and I got zapped with cologne by a girl in a white smock as we fought our way past the cosmetics counters.

The restaurant upstairs was a Chicago institution, and most of the lunch crowd was gone by then, so we were seated immediately. Tracy taught me how to drape my coat over the back of my chair, and she suggested that I visit the ladies room to repair what the wind had done to my wig. “Does it look funny?” I asked.

“No, you just look like a girl who’s been through a force ten gale. Now you know why I wore this hat.”

I had so much to learn about being a woman!

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, I rejoined a very impatient Tracy at the table. “Where have you been?” she steamed.

“Well, let’s see…first I had to wait for a stall…”

“You needed a stall to comb your hair?”

“Please…nature called, and after I scored a stall, it took me a while to figure out how to get my panties and pantyhose down far enough to sit down, while holding up my slip and skirt of course…what a hassle!”

“I hope everything came out all right,” she said sarcastically.

“Yes, darling. It did take me forever to put everything back together, and then I went to work on my hair…it looked like a fright wig! I almost pulled it clear off my head, which would have been a little embarrassing, considering the crowd that was in there, although none of them had a clue. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of this. How do I look?”

Tracy backed off. “You look like you’ve been a woman all your life,” she said. “Believe me, I know girls who would kill to have your figure, and who knew that your face would paint up so pretty?”

I must have blushed, and once again I had the nagging feeling that I was getting way too good at this…what kind of a man was I? A waitress materialized before I could think of what to say, and we busied ourselves with the menus. I followed Tracy’s lead and ordered a salad and iced tea, something a girl would have for lunch. When we were alone again, Tracy launched into her lesson. “Cut your food into little pieces…always ask for the dressing on the side…leave something on your plate…” On and on she went, schooling me on the ways of being a woman, from etiquette to fashion, even hygiene and how to watch my weight. It was so strange, sitting there with her like another girl, feeling more and more like I was becoming one.

When we were through with our ladies’ lunch, Tracy insisted on picking up the check, then she steered me back to State Street for the short walk to Filene’s Basement. There, I was overwhelmed by the endless racks of skirts, tops and dresses, as well as accessories, lingerie and outerwear. We must have spent two hours trying outfits out on me, after I overcame a panic attack waiting for the sentry in the fitting room to give me a plastic number indicating the number of items I was carrying. Soon I was the proud owner of a complete woman’s wardrobe: panties, bras, skirts and dresses, tights and tops, coats and sweaters, even a nightgown with a matching robe to sleep in. Just when I thought we were finished, Tracy dragged me to a Payless shoe store where I tried on and bought several pair of flats, heels and boots.

Our final stop was Walgreen’s, where Tracy helped me stock up on foundation, powder, eyeliner, nail polish, shadow, blush, lipstick and mascara, as well as an array of brushes of sponges and a cosmetics bag to put them in.

I was totally exhausted by the time we made our way to the underground concourse to catch the Blue Line back to Rosemont. The train was crowded with commuters this time, but we were able to find two seats together, and once again I dozed off as we streaked through the gathering dusk. When we got to our stop, we buttoned up our coats and slogged our way back to back to Tracy’s apartment, laden down with shopping bags, feeling exhausted, exhilarated, and slightly silly. Tracy uncorked a bottle of wine while I tried to find space for my new things in her crowded closet and dresser.

“We forgot to get me some bling,” I said when I joined her in the kitchen.

“What would you like, a diamond tiara?”

“No, it’s just that you know, I hate to take your stuff….”

“Girlfriend, I’m just happy that you’re not wearing my clothes. If you want to keep those trinkets you’ve got on, be my guest, although I do think you should have your ears pierced.” I ignored the suggestion, not wanting to go there…it seemed so permanent! “We should put a ring on your finger, so the guys don’t hit on you….”

“Sh’yea, right!”

“I’m serious, missy,” Tracy said as she poured us each a glass of wine. “In case you don’t know it, you are seriously hot, and I’m surprised you haven’t been hit on already.”

Tracy fixed us a salad, and then some pasta, while we gabbed through the night about girl stuff. After two bottles of wine, and some Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, we were ready for bed. It felt great to take off my girl’s clothes and cream off my makeup, and even better to slip into my nightgown and crawl into bed beside Tracy…that night we had the most glorious sex of our lives, taking turns pleasing each other, crying out in ecstasy as we each went to places we’d never been before.

When we were both sated, Tracy lit up a Benson & Hedges and we shared puffs contentedly. “That was amazing,” she said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Do you think I could pass as a guy?” That totally threw me. What kind of weird hang-up was this? Then again, who was I to talk? “I don’t mean that I want to be a guy,” she went on, “but seeing you like you were today makes me wonder whether I could pull it off like you.”

Something told me there was more going on beneath the surface. “I don’t know…I think you’re too pretty.”

“Thanks, but what if I had a fake mustache or something.”

“Then you’d look like a fairy with a mustache. Is that what you want?”

“No!” she punched me in the arm. “I guess I’ll have to content myself with being your lesbian lover.” For some reason that turned us both on again, and we made slow, sweet love until our bodies were utterly spent.

* * *

The next morning, Tracy fixed breakfast while I shaved, bathed and dressed in one of my new outfits. I decided on my plaid kilt, turtleneck and tights, accessorized by a gold chain around my waist. After I pulled on my calf-length boots, I studied my reflection in the mirror. If anything, I looked more like a girl than yesterday. What in the world was happening to me?

“Let me see you,” Tracy said when I sat down to breakfast. “Hmm…your makeup isn’t bad, and your hair looks nice…wow, I love your kilt, it looks so cute with that sweater. You really should have been a girl, you know.”

Once again, that nagging suggestion that I was getting way too good at this…I dismissed the thought and focused on the matters at hand. “When’s your next flight?”

“I have to leave for the airport at six, why?”

“Because my plan is to lure Norman Wolf back here tonight to get the truth out of him. According to the paper, he just made bail, and if I know Norman, he’ll be on Rush Street getting drunk.”

“Lure him? What, are you gonna put on a cocktail dress and come on to him at a singles bar?”

“You got it…he’s divorced, and he hangs out at Gibson’s most nights when he’s in Chicago.”

“You go, girl…only what are you gonna do if he tries to get into your pants?”

* * *

Tracy and I spent the day shopping for a dress for me. It wasn’t easy to find a slinky dress that looked good on my body, but eventually we found a little black number with spaghetti straps that made me look like I’d been poured into it. I splurged on some sexy lingerie, a clutch purse, strappy heels and some fashion jewelry, and we even found a fake fur at a thrift shop that looked like a million on me.

Tracy surprised me with a trip to a nail salon, which left me with sharp red talons to use on Norman Wolf. Our last stop was a store which catered to mastectomy patients, where she helped me buy the most amazing set of silicone breast forms. I tried them on as soon as we got back to her place. I couldn’t believe how they made me look so hot and feel so girly.

Tracy liked them too, and before she got ready for work, she coaxed one last orgasm out of my bewildered body. By the time she was in her uniform, ready to leave for her flight, I was luxuriating in a bubble bath, psyching myself up for the night ahead.

“Good luck, girlfriend,” she said with genuine concern. “Wish I could be there with you.”

“You’re the best, baby,” I said from behind a wall of bubbles. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She reached down and kissed me gently on the lips. “Please be careful! Remember, you’re only a girl.” Then she was gone, and I wallowed in the tub for a long time, missing her as well as the man I used to be.

* * *

It was with real foreboding that I climbed out of the tub to prepare myself for the night head. After drying off and moisturizing, I took a long time with my makeup, adding a few flourishes for evening that Tracy had taught me. Before she left, she shampooed my wig, and I was freaked out by how ratty it looked before she brushed it out. Now, it looked better than ever, and in no time I’d styled it into a perky wedge.

My new dress called for a strapless bra, and I felt forlorn as I tucked myself into my matching black panties. Sheer nude pantyhose were next, then a lacy black half slip, and finally my dress, which looked sensational on me. I was shaking with anticipation as I sat down on the bed to strap on my heels, then it was time for some bling and a shot of Tracy’s expensive cologne. I stuffed my little purse with female essentials, and when I wrapped my fur around my shoulders, the look was complete. God, I looked hot in the full length mirror!

There was no way I was taking the subway in this outfit. I called for a cab, and soon I was sitting in the back of an overheated taxi, very aware of the sly glances from the driver in the rear view mirror. By now, my self-confidence was such that I knew he was looking at me as a woman, and my feelings of vulnerability intensified.

I tipped him handsomely when we pulled up to Gibson’s. Although it was a bitterly cold night, Rush Street was full of life, and I caused quite a scene when I stepped out of the cab in my skimpy little dress. The crowd outside Gibson’s parted and a guy opened the door for me, I handed my fur to the coat check girl, and after a quick trip to the ladies’ room to check on my hair and makeup I was fighting for a place at the bar.

There he was, right where I expected to find him, holding down a barstool with a Jack Daniels in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Norman Wolf looked a bit more disheveled than usual, and I watched with amusement as he hit on a cougar with zero success. Meanwhile I was having problems of my own, trying as nicely as I could to brush off lame pickup lines from two losers.

Then the barstool next to Norman opened up, and I was on it in a flash, making an elaborate show of tugging at the hem of my dress after I climbed onto it. I totally ignored Norman at first, even though he was obviously staring at me. The moment of truth: even in his inebriated state in the dim light, would he make me as Matt McCoy? I wanted to have plenty of people around if that happened.

I reached into my purse for one of Tracy’s cigarettes. When I started fumbling for my lighter, Norman whipped out his, and I gave him a sideways glance while he lit me up. “Thanks,” I said, feeling a little buzz after I drew the sweet smoke into my lungs.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure, that would be nice.”

Norman snapped his fingers at the bartender. “What will it be?” he asked me.

“A Cosmopolitan, please.”

“A Cosmo for the little lady, and another Jack on the rocks for me,” Norman ordered. I gave him a shy smile and waited for him to make the next move.

“Are you from Chicago?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I live in Rosemont. I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner tonight, but he had a last-minute conflict, and here I was, all dressed up with no place to go. So I decided to console myself with a drink before I went back to the burbs.” My female voice was working for me, and the lies rolled easily off my tongue.

“That’s a shame,” Norman said. “Why don’t you have dinner with me?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Norman….and you are?”

“Ashley.”

“Well then, now that we’ve been properly introduced, let’s find ourselves a table.” He pushed back his barstool and took my hand. It wasn’t easy hopping down in my dress, and I’m sure Norman enjoyed the spectacle. He bulled his way through the crowd without waiting for me. Grudgingly, I had to admire his self-confidence as I tottered after him in my heels. By the time I caught up with him, he was bribing the maitre’d for the next table, and soon we were seated side-by-side in a cozy booth.

When a waiter arrived with our drinks from the bar, Norman ordered two more before he turned his attention to the wine list. I’d been out with him once before, for lunch as a guy, and I remembered how he’d splurged on a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine. I couldn’t wait to see how much he was going to spend on me.

I wasn’t disappointed. “They have an exceptional Bordeaux if you feel like red meat tonight,” he said.

“A filet would be nice.”

“Done.” I crossed my legs with a swish of nylon and gazed around the restaurant while Norman dealt with the sommelier and the waiter. It seemed that half the tables were occupied by middle-aged men with hot chicks. The waiter lit a candle on our table, but the light was still low, and I was sure that Norman had no idea that his chippie was really me.

I reached into my purse for another cigarette. I waited expectantly for Norman to light it, and this time I touched his hand when he offered his lighter. “Thanks,” I said. “Do you come here a lot?”

“I’m one of their best customers. How do you think we got this table?”

Such an ass, I said to myself. “You must be important,” I purred.

“And how about you, Ashley? What do you do?”

“I’m just a flight attendant.”

“How nice,” he said condescendingly. “You must meet some fascinating people.”

“Oh sure, you meet a lot of nice cattle on the cattle car.” I was beginning to feel more at ease, and I needed to loosen him up. He took another pull at his Jack Daniels and leaned closer to me. I felt his hand brush against my leg. Another long draw on my cigarette while I waited for his next move.

“You’re much too intelligent and attractive to be stuck in a job you don’t like,” he slurred. God, you really must be drunk, I thought to myself, considering that the girl you’re hitting on is really a guy trying to act like a total bimbo. The whole scene would have been comical if my situation weren’t so desperate. Our wine and salads arrived, and while we engaged in small talk, I tried to remember Tracy’s lessons on how to be ladylike.

Our steaks were presented with a flourish on sizzling platters, and my filet was so delicious I almost forgot who I was. Tiny bites! I had to remind myself, while Norman attacked his 16 oz. sirloin like a Rwandan refugee. Suddenly his face turned blue, and before I realized what was happening he started to pound on the table, gasping and clawing at his throat. He was choking on a piece of meat! Without thinking, I jumped up, ran around the booth and dragged him onto the floor. Then I reached down around his massive chest and grabbed him in the Heimlich maneuver. One sharp tug…another sharp tug…and then a piece of sirloin shot out of his mouth and he was able to breathe.

I sat next to him on the floor, my dress up to my thighs, panting with exertion. Several waiters ran over to us offering to help, and one of them took my hand and lifted me back on my feet while Norman brushed them off. “I’m fine,” he said with embarrassment.

“Thanks to your lady friend,” a man at the next table said, and the whole restaurant burst into spontaneous applause. I did a little curtsey and resumed my seat. Our table top was a shambles, and the waiters swiftly replaced our tablecloth and salvaged what remained of our dinners. A new bottle of wine was produced compliments of the management, and we both sat there sipping in silence. I stole a glance at the compact in my purse to make sure my wig was still on straight, wondering if this episode had ruined my chances for tonight.

To the contrary, when Norman finally spoke, he sounded almost sincere. “Ashley, you just saved my life. I am totally indebted to you. How can I ever repay you?”

* * *

Half an hour later, we were cruising up Lakeshore Drive in Norman’s Jaguar. Although my scheme had been to lure him to Tracy’s apartment, when he suggested that we adjourn to his place for a nightcap, I jumped at the chance, although I was becoming more and more worried as we drove towards his building. If I’d gotten him alone at Tracy’s place, I intended to knock him out with booze laced with sleeping pills, tie him up, and force a confession out of him when he came to.

Now I had no plan, and in my little dress and heels I would be defenseless if he tried to take advantage of me. As if to confirm my worst fears, Norman’s arm strayed over the console and squeezed one of my silky knees. “Thanks again for saving my life tonight, baby,” he whispered. I fought my revulsion and allowed his hand to slide up my dress until it got dangerously close to my secret.

Finally I grasped his hand and gently but firmly guided it back onto the wheel. “Better watch your driving, you don’t want the cops to stop you after all we’ve had to drink.”

“Yes, dear,” he teased me. “You really are my guardian angel tonight.” Talk about clueless, I thought to myself. Norman deliberately jumped a light just to spook me, then he started pawing my legs again. Before I could protest, he pulled into a driveway and parked in his reserved spot in an underground garage. I lifted the visor and peeked at myself in the vanity mirror while he was walking around the car to open my door. The girl looking back at me in the mirror seemed very nervous. Then my door was open, and Norman was treated to a spectacular leg show as I scrambled out of my bucket seat.

He put his arm around me and guided me towards the elevators. We rode in silence to one of the upper floors of an exclusive high-rise. Nobody saw us enter the building, and when the elevator doors opened the hallway was deserted. I took his arm as we walked, unnerved by the clickety-clack of my high heels echoing down the marble corridor. His unit was at the very end, and after he unlocked the door he held it open for me without turning on the lights.

At first I thought that he was going to jump on me then and there, until I realized that he wanted the full impact of the view to hit me in the darkness. It was spectacular, a blaze of lights reflecting off the glistening shore of Lake Michigan. How many women had he used the same technique on, I wondered? While I was standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, he turned on some music and soft lights. “How about a glass of champagne?” he asked, nuzzling me from behind as he slipped off my fur.

“Okay, after I powder my nose.” He pointed towards a hall bathroom, and I made a beeline for it, locked the door behind me and grasped the vanity with both hands, shaking uncontrollably. What the hell was I doing here, in women’s clothing, with a man who had already ruined my life? I looked up at myself in the mirror and saw a scared little girl who was in way over her head. The best I could hope for was to make my way back to the street without humiliating myself…then all I’d have to do was hail a cab, in a dress and heels, in downtown Chicago in the dark of night.

Maybe there was another way…I desperately tried to come up with a plan as I went through the motions of straightening my dress and stockings, brushing my hair, freshening my lipstick. The only thing I had going for me was the way I looked: the woman in the mirror was undeniably pretty, and Norman Wolf was already impaired from way too much alcohol. If I could keep up the façade long enough to find a weakness, maybe I could save myself. “You’re a woman,” I told my reflection in the mirror. “I’m a woman,” she said back to me.

Norman was waiting for me on a cream leather sofa, two glasses of champagne bubbling on the glass coffee table. I leaned against the wall and unstrapped my heels, gratefully feeling the relief from walking across the plush carpet in my stocking feet. I sat down next to him and tucked my legs under my dress. He handed me a fluted glass of champagne, picked up his, and we clinked them together in a silent toast. “To Ashley,” he said as an after-thought, “the woman who saved my life.”

To Norman, the shit who wrecked mine, I thought to myself as I sipped my champagne. I got up from the sofa and retrieved a cigarette from my purse. Norman lit it for me, and I sat down demurely in a facing chair, playing hard to get. He drained his champagne in two gulps and topped me off before he poured himself another glass. How much more alcohol could he take before he passed out, I wondered?

As if to answer my question, Norman asked me if I’d like a tour of his condo. God, what a nightmare! I drained my glass and reluctantly got to my feet, pretending to be a little drunk to lower his guard. When we got to his study, I spied a heavy-duty safe behind an open closet door. An inspiration came to me. “What’s my reward for saving your life?” I asked.

“Your reward?”

“The keys to your jag? Or maybe I’ll just move in here with you….”

Being a guy, I figured that would throw him, and sure enough he responded the way I expected. “Sweetie, I owe you big time. Let me show you how generous I can be.” I held my breath while he dialed the combination to his safe…there was a large brass paperweight on his desk, and I deftly picked it up and hid it behind my back. When he bent down to reach into the safe, I came up behind him and brought it down as hard as I could on the back of his ugly head.

Norman collapsed into a heap on the floor. I stepped over him and started unloading the contents of his safe, looking for anything that might incriminate him and clear me. To my astonishment, all I found were thick envelopes stuffed with wads of cash, in large bills…hundreds of thousands of dollars, more like millions, which Norman must have stashed away over the years.

I looked down at him, and for the first time I realized that something was wrong. Not only wasn’t he moving, he didn’t appear to be breathing, and his face had turned a deadly white. A quick check of his pulse confirmed the worst. I can honestly say that I felt no remorse, considering what he’d done to me. Instead, I felt sick to my stomach over what would happen to me when I was arrested for his murder. When word got out that I’d killed a man while dressed as a woman, I’d be fair game for the boys in prison. One way or another, my life as a man was over.

Or maybe not. Nobody had seen us enter his apartment. I glanced at my watch. It was well past midnight. Coolly, I looked around the study for something to hold the cash. An attaché case on the floor caught my eye, and I went to work stuffing it with thousands upon thousands of dollars. When it was full, I was barely able to snap it shut, and it weighed a ton.

Okay, now for fingerprints…I used a towel from the powder room to methodically wipe down the paperweight, my champagne glass, and anything else I might have touched. While I was doing this, I was already planning my escape. I returned to Norman’s corpse and fished his keys out of his trouser pocket. After a last look around, I strapped my heels back on, put on my fur, picked up my purse and the briefcase full of cash, and quietly let myself out.

Nobody saw me ride down the elevator to the garage and get into Norman’s car. I drove carefully through the city streets to the JFK Expressway, and stayed well under the speed limit all the way to Rosemont. It was almost dawn when I pulled a ticket for the lot at Tracy’s building, parked and locked Norman’s car, and made my way to the apartment. A few early risers noticed the pretty girl coming home alone in her black dress, and a guy offered to help me with my heavy briefcase, but I waved him off politely and kept my cool until I was safely inside.

Then I lost it, totally. I fell to the floor, curled up and cried, shedding a woman’s tears over what had become of me. Matt McCoy’s only chance to clear his name had died with Norman Wolf. Now I was a murderer, a thief, and from the looks of things, I was going to have to become a woman. I was already a wanted man, and when they found Norman’s body, they’d assume it was me who killed him. I’d be better off hiding out as a woman for as long as I could. Once they caught up with me, if I was lucky enough to avoid the death penalty, I’d spend the rest of my life getting raped in prison, so I was going to be a woman whether I liked it or not. Why not be a pretty, rich young woman? There were millions of dollars in that briefcase…could I really get away with it?

“Let’s go, girl,” I said to myself with grim determination. First I hid the briefcase full of cash in the hall closet. Then, after removing my clothes, wig and makeup, I took a long, hot bath. After I shaved, put on a little makeup and my wig again, I dressed myself in a simple skirt and top. I was beginning to get used to the feel of women’s clothes. Good thing, I thought sadly, since I’d be wearing them for the rest of my life. I was making toast and coffee when there was a sharp rap on the door.

Could the cops be onto me already? Maybe they found Norman’s car! I pulled myself together and opened the door. It was the same two FBI agents who had questioned Tracy two days earlier! This time they didn’t ask if they could come in, they just barged through the door and confronted me. “You weren’t completely truthful with us the other day, were you, Ashley?” one of them said.

Some instinct saved me from blurting out what I’d done. Instead, I fell into the flight attendant’s role that had worked for me last time, hoping to buy some time. “I don’t know what you mean. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

I sat down on the sofa and wrapped my long skirt around my bare legs, a feminine gesture that didn’t seem to impress the men. “Ashley, why didn’t you tell us that Matt McCoy gave you a check for five thousand dollars last week?”

I was so relieved that they weren’t accusing me of murder, I felt almost giddy. “Because Tracy was in the room.”

“What do you mean?”

I gave a little sigh. “Tracy doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing Matt.”

“Why did he give you the money?”

“He forgot my birthday, and when I got mad he flipped open his checkbook and wrote me a check. I was so insulted, I wasn’t even going to cash it.”

“But you did cash it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, you cashed it the day before yesterday, after you learned that we were looking for him.”

I lowered my head. “Yes,” I nodded.

“Would you care to tell us why?”

I looked up at them defensively. “Things are tough for a working girl. I needed the money.”

“Have you heard from him since we were here?”

I nodded my head again and started to sniffle. “Yes.”

That got their attention. “When did you talk to him?”

“Matt called me after Tracy left for her trip, around six o’clock.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me he’s innocent.”

“They all say that, Ashley. What else did he tell you?”

“Do I have to say?”

“You’re in enough trouble already, Ashley. If you cooperate with us, we’ll give you a pass for covering up for him yesterday. If you don’t, we’ll be going downtown for a longer conversation.”

I shook my head sadly. “He told me he was going to lie low in California for a while. He really did tell me that he was innocent. He said he was set up by some guy named Norman.”

The agents exchanged glances. “Did he say anything else?”

“Just that he loved me,” I sniffled again.

“All right, Ashley. I want you to promise that you’ll call us immediately if you hear from him again, and above all don’t tell him what you just told us. Is that clear?”

“Definitely, I don’t want Matt knowing that I told you anything.”

“Did he say where in California?”

I screwed up my eyes like I was trying to remember. “I think he said San Francisco.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

“That’s all I know. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything yesterday. Can I ask you a question?” I inquired as I got up to let them out.

“What?”

“Does Tracy have to know about this?”

They relented a bit. “We won’t say anything to her about your relationship with Matt.”

“Thanks.” I opened the door for them, and waited for them to disappear down the hall before I closed the door, fell to the floor and curled up once again, wiping my tears with the folds of my skirt. My crying jag was shorter this time, and when I got back up, I was actually proud of myself. After all, I’d given the feds a bum steer that would have them combing San Francisco for me. Now all I had to do was head in the opposite direction.

I went to the nightstand where I’d found Ashley’s airline credential and looked for her passport. Sure enough, she’d left it there, and her passport photo was the spitting image of me in her wig. I thought for a moment of all the trouble I was causing for Ashley. Between linking her to Matt McCoy’s flight from justice and stealing her passport, I was doing quite a number on her. I resolved to leave $1,000 for her in the nightstand as a gesture of atonement.

Surely she wouldn’t mind my borrowing one of her suitcases too! I found her airline-issue rolling bag and opened it up on the bed. It swallowed up my meager woman’s wardrobe with room for more, but I decided not to steal any of the girls’ clothes. My getaway outfit would be a wool jumper, nylons and flats. I threw the skirt and top I was wearing into the suitcase, put on my dress and stockings, and crammed my cosmetics bag into an outside pocket of Ashley’s suitcase. My flats were almost comfortable compared to the heels I’d been wearing, and they made my feet look downright dainty.

I put Ashley’s passport in my purse, and got the briefcase out of the hall closet. I didn’t take the time to count it, but I was sure there was well over a million dollars in hundred dollar bills in those envelopes. After taking out Ashley’s grand and ten thousand in traveling money for me, I scattered the rest throughout Ashley’s suitcase, burying the money with skirts, tops and lingerie.

The last thing I did was sit down to write a note to Tracy. I sat at her kitchen table for the last time, wearing a dress, trying to think of how to say goodbye to the woman who had literally changed my life. Forty-eight hours ago, I was a brash young man with his whole life ahead of him. Now, because of Norman Wolf’s treachery and my own stupidity, I was a hunted man. Thanks to Tracy, I had another chance, even if it meant living the rest of my life as a woman. How could I tell her how I felt without revealing too much, knowing that the FBI might get their hands on my letter?

I crumpled up several sheet of paper before I found the right words:

Dear Tracy,

By the time you read this I will be far away. I want you to know how much I love you for what you did for me. I’m afraid I wasn’t very grateful at first, but I have gotten used to it and to tell you the truth, I kind of like myself this way.

I’ve got to believe that the FBI will clear me some day. Maybe Norman Wolf will come clean and admit that he set me up. In the meantime I will be on the run, thinking of you, and the incredible time we had.

Love,

Matt

PS - Please tell Ashley I’m sorry for any trouble I caused her, I left some money in her nightstand.

* * *

I left the letter on her pillow, grabbed my purse and suitcase, and let myself out of the apartment. As an afterthought, I returned for the empty briefcase, which I tossed down the trash chute. Norman’s car was where I left it, and with any luck his body was still undiscovered. I turned on the news during the short drive to O’Hare, but there was nothing about a murder on Lakeshore Drive. I left his car in the long-term parking lot, tossed the keys into a storm drain, and caught the shuttle bus to the international terminal.

* * *

Tugging Ashley’s suitcase behind me, I entered the ultra-modern concourse with no destination in mind. The large departures board hanging from the ceiling indicated that the next flight out of the country was in ten minutes, to London. After that there was a flight to Hong Kong, and then one to Tokyo. I kept looking down the board until I found a flight to Zurich, leaving in two hours. Perfect. I walked up to the first class counter at Swissair and asked if they had any space available. Yes, I was told, there was one seat left in first class. I asked what the one-way fare would be. It was a small fortune, and I had to fish a wad of hundred dollar bills out of my purse to pay for it. The ticket agent gave Ashley’s passport a long, hard look before issuing my boarding pass.

I knew that I was in for a gauntlet at security. A one-way ticket paid for with cash set off alarm bells, and there was nothing I could do but grin and bear it. I took my chances and checked my bag, reasoning that the risk of my money being discovered and stolen by a dishonest airline employee was preferable to the trouble it could cause me during secondary screening, and besides I had all my cosmetics to think of.

As expected, I was singled out for a thorough search. A matronly employee took her time with a wand, feeling me up and down, but she didn’t come near my package. I had to stand there for a long time in my stocking feet while they pawed through my purse, then I was on my way to the first class lounge. I indulged myself with some excellent champagne and brie, flipping through the Chicago papers for anything about Norman Wolf’s murder. My flight was called, and I was just gathering up my purse when it made the evening news:

“Norman Wolf, a prominent Chicago businessman, was found dead this afternoon in his luxurious condominium on Lakeshore Drive. A housekeeper discovered his body next to an open safe in his study. Wolf had not been missed at work, where he has been on leave of absence since his indictment for securities fraud. Police declined to speculate whether there was any connection between his death and the pending charges….”

Time to get out of the country! I hurried to my gate, where the last of the passengers were just boarding. The first class steward escorted me to my seat, and I was handed another glass of champagne as soon as I sat down.

A leather amenity kit full of crá¨mes and lotions, a pillow and blanket, and a menu and wine list soon followed. If this was the life of a female fugitive, I could get used to it! I snuggled into my enormous sleeper seat, more like a flying Barcalounger, and closed my eyes. By now I’d become so comfortable wearing women’s clothing that I didn’t mind the thought of sleeping in my dress. After 36 hours without any sleep, it wouldn’t take long for me to drift into dreamland.

You would think I was in for a restless night, with blood on my hands and the law on my tail, but after an excellent dinner and too many glasses of wine, I was dead to the world. When I finally awakened, the cabin crew was already serving breakfast. I beat the crowd into the well-appointed lavatory and surveyed myself in the mirror. As I feared, stubble was peeking through my makeup. Fortunately, the lavatory was equipped with a nice array of amenities, including razors and shaving cream. Fifteen minutes later, my female face restored, I was ready for a bloody mary with breakfast.

I gazed down at the snow-covered Alps as we made our final approach, calculating my next moves. As soon as we touched down, I shouldered my purse and braced myself for passport control. Ashley’s passport worked for me again, and after an anxious wait, her suitcase emerged on the baggage carousel, I breezed through the Nothing to Declare line, and it was off to the U-bahn to central Zurich.

Figuring that my days might be numbered, I splurged on a five star hotel by the lake, taking the best room available. As soon as I was safely inside my suite, I tore open Ashley’s suitcase to see if the cash was still there. There they were, glorious bundles of green, submerged in a silky sea of skirts, lingerie, and stockings. I wept silently as I tallied them up…five hundred thousand…one million…two million…Norman Wolf had squirreled away over three million dollars, which now belonged to me, as long as I was willing to spend the rest of my life as a woman.

There are worse fates, I pondered after I shaved my legs in a long, hot bath. Luxuriating with a cup of room service espresso in my plush hotel bathrobe, I made a list of things to do, practicing how to write with a girlish hand:

1. Open bank account

2. Find Internet café

3. Look for news about NW

4. email Tracy

5. Web search re female hormones?

I scratched out the last item…I knew I had to make some serious decisions about my future, but they could wait. To open my Swiss bank account, I put on my most conservative outfit: a crisp white blouse, pleated black skirt, heels and stockings. In no time, I’d stashed most of my blood money in a numbered account, and used the rest to score a hundred thousand euros in travelers checks, no questions asked.

My spirits soaring, I found an Internet café and checked the Chicago Tribune website for news about the Wolf investigation. What I found wasn’t good: Chicago police were looking for Matt McCoy in connection with Norman Wolf’s murder. Also sought for questioning was the blonde woman seen having dinner with Wolf the night before his body was discovered.

Shaken, I checked my email address for messages. There was this from Tracy:

“Where are you? The police met my flight today and grilled me about you. When I got home I found your note. Then I turned on the news and learned that Norman Wolf has been murdered. Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it! PS — Ashley got back today and she is really pissed. Did you take her passport too?”

I felt the noose tightening around my neck. How long did I have before the police made the connection between Matt McCoy’s disappearance, the mysterious blonde who left Gibson’s with Norman Wolf, and Ashley’s missing passport? One thing was certain: as soon as Ashley reported her passport missing, it would be radioactive. I closed my eyes and desperately tried to think: a routine check with INS would tell the police about Ashley’s flight to Zurich. How much time did I have before they came after me?

I reckoned that the police and the FBI were monitoring Tracy’s emails, so I sent her this:

“Can’t believe Wolf is dead. How am I ever going to clear myself now? I’m in California, will stay here until I figure out what to do next. PS — Needed photo ID to fly here, borrowed Ashley’s passport, my bad”

Using Ashley’s passport at an airport would be like waving a red flag now, but I ought to be able to show it to railroad conductors at border crossings without leaving any trace. I spent the next few hours scouring the Internet for information about European trains and how to obtain a fake ID. Before leaving, I checked for emails again. Another message from Tracy:

“You’re living as a girl in California? That is such a turn-on! I totally believe you’re innocent. Lay low as long as you have to, Maddy. I’ll be waiting for you. Love, Tracy PS — Those FBI creeps were here today to talk to Ashley for some reason, they took one look at her and left”

Time to get out of Zurich! But only after I got back on the web to do some fast research about electrolysis and female hormones, which led me to the Gender Identity Clinic at the Free University of Amsterdam. There was no turning back now. Maddy, she called me…maybe the next time I saw Tracy, she’d have her lesbian lover.

Chancing a return to my hotel, I changed into my sweater and kilt and hurriedly packed Ashley’s suitcase. I slipped out a side door without checking out, and caught a taxi to the Bahnhof, where I used travelers checks to book a first class sleeping compartment on the overnight express to Amsterdam.

My train wasn’t leaving for another hour and a half. I bought a mini electric shaver at the station arcade, which also featured a smart bistro. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since I got off the plane, and suddenly I was starving. I went into the bistro and asked for a table for one. For the first time in my life, I felt self-conscious about dining alone at a restaurant. Life was going to be so different for me now!

In Europe, it is customary for singles to be paired off in restaurants, and I found myself seated across from a distinguished-looking man in a suit and tie. He put down his paper and smiled. I smiled back, and he introduced himself in English with a French accent.

“I’m Maddy. How did you know I spoke English?” I asked in reply.

“American women are the most beautiful in the world. You are very beautiful, so I took a chance.” I actually felt a little stirring in my panties. What in the world was happening to me?

A waiter came, and I ordered quiche and a glass of white wine. My companion ordered steak frites with an expensive Bordeaux before he resumed his seduction. “Have you been in Zurich long?”

“I flew in this morning.”

“If you look this way after a night without sleep, I can only imagine how beautiful you would be after a night in bed.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I replied. In spite of myself, I couldn’t resist having a little fun with him. I took a cigarette out of my purse, and waited expectantly for him to light it. He didn’t disappoint me, producing a Cartier lighter with a flourish. After he lit one of his own, we inhaled silently, regarding each other through the smoke like worthy adversaries in a chess match.

“And where are you spending tonight?” he finally asked.

“I’m off to Amsterdam in an hour.”

“Pity. I myself am returning to Paris.” I found myself glancing at his left hand. His wedding band had been removed from his ring finger, but the well-worn groove was still evident. I wondered what he would have tried if I were on his train? And I wondered how I would have responded?

Our conversation petered out after that, although when we’d finished our dinners and wine he graciously stood up and kissed my hand. I must have been quite flustered, because he had to remind me that I had forgotten my purse. I thanked him profusely, and he gave me his business card before I left to catch my train.

It was a long walk to the platform for the Amsterdam express. I felt a surge of excitement when I looked up at the crowded departures board. Berlin, Rome, Paris…this would be my life from now on, trying to stay one step ahead of the law, in high heels. The last passengers were just climbing aboard my train, and I was relieved to find that my compartment had already been turned down for the night.

I kicked off my heels and stretched out on the cozy little bed, looking down at the sleek, silky legs under my skirt. Soon I would be growing my hair and breasts to go with them. When I left Chicago, my life as a man was behind me. By the time I left Amsterdam, a life of leisure as a wealthy woman would lie ahead, in Saint Tropez or sunny Spain.

There was a rap on my door, and I opened it cautiously. It was only the conductor. I handed him my ticket and Ashley’s passport, and locked the door for the night. The train was already rolling by the time I put on my nightgown and crawled under the covers. I closed my eyes and thought back over all that had changed, and the changes yet to come. It wasn’t long before I succumbed to the rhythm of the rails, my slumbers spiced by forbidden dreams.

* * *

I woke up with a start to polite but persistent tapping on the door of my first class sleeping compartment. “Zehn Minuten bis zur Amsterdam Centraal” a man was saying. After he repeated his warning in Dutch, I finally heard, “Ten minutes to Amsterdam.” I wrapped my robe around my shoulders, checked to make sure my wig was on straight, and cautiously opened the door a few inches to retrieve my passport. “Guten Morgan, Fraulein,” the conductor said.

“Thank you,” I stammered in a woman’s voice before I slammed the door. Ten minutes! A few days ago, that would have been do big deal for Matt McCoy, but how was Maddy ever going to get herself dressed and made up in ten minutes?

Relax Fraulein, I told the tousle-haired woman in the mirror. They’re not going to kick a first-class passenger off the train before she’s had time to make herself beautiful. You’re a rich bitch now, act like one! My cozy little compartment had its own toilet and sink, and soon my teeth were brushed, the stubble was gone from my face, and I was ready to transform myself into a woman once again.

The train was still lurching over the points approaching the station, do I decided to get dressed before putting on my makeup. Hmm…what does a girl wear to score a fake ID in the back streets of a notorious European city? Thanks to my girlfriend Tracy, my wardrobe was ultra-feminine, but I finally settled on a thin turtleneck sweater, a knee-length skirt, and since I’d be doing a lot of walking, my comfy flats. A peek through the curtains confirmed that it was gray and drizzly, much like the weather I’d left behind in Chicago, so my black trench coat would complete the look.

I put on a fresh pair of panties, filled a bra with my wonderful silicone breast forms, and sat down on the bed to ease on a pair of sheer black pantyhose. I was still fascinated by how sexy they made my legs look, and I had a pang of longing for the way Tracy used to tease and please me when I dressed this way…would I ever see her again? And if I ever did, would there be anything left of the man she used to love? With those morose thoughts, I pulled on my sweater, zipped up my skirt and stepped into my dainty shoes. I rummaged through my suitcase for a scarf and some jewelry, and by the time I was finished dressing we’d come to a stop. I was getting better and better at doing my makeup and styling my wig, so in no time at all a pretty young woman was towing her suitcase behind her through the bustling railroad station.

After quick stop at a station café for coffee and a Dutch breakfast that looked and tasted like an Egg McMuffin, I checked my suitcase and left the station, taking some time to get my bearings. Eventually I found a tram to my first stop, a wig store on Prinsengracht, a narrow street fronting on one of the canals. I got there a few minutes before they opened, and killed some time smoking a cigarette as I gazed out at the houseboats. My skirt and stockings were no match for the raw winter weather, and I stamped my feet in the cold as I waited impatiently for the shopkeeper to arrive.

When the door finally opened, I spent a few minutes looking around self-consciously before a middle-aged woman approached me. “Can I help you, miss?” she asked. Good thing everyone in Holland seemed to speak English!

“Yes, I need a good wig that will be easy to take care of and style.”

“I recommend one of our top-quality synthetics. Is there a particular style and color?”

“Yes. My natural hair is dark brown, and I want it much longer than this,” I said, pointing to my short blonde wig.

“Of course, if you will follow me to one of our private rooms, let me find you a wig cap and we can try some on.”

Even in the privacy of the booth she led me to, it was humiliating to remove my wig and sit before her with a man’s haircut in women’s clothing. Obviously she had seen it all before, and in no time she was back with an armful of mannequin heads, each featuring long brown hair. One after another, I let her try them on me, until she showed me one that looked and felt just right. The brunette looking back at me in the mirror was strikingly attractive, and her hair would be long enough to pull back into a ponytail when she was in a hurry. Most important, her hair was similar to the way mine used to look when I wore it long in college, so when I grew it out again, pictures of me in the wig would match the way I was going to be.

I paid for the wig with a travelers check and wore it out of the store, tossing Ashley’s borrowed blonde wig into the canal. Then I retraced my steps to the station, where I had spotted a shop specializing in passport photos. Twenty minutes later, I was riding on a different tram towards a seedy neighborhood frequented by foreign students, illegal émigrés, and assorted criminals. The address I’d found in an Internet chat room, where several satisfied customers had remarked about the proprietor’s skill and complete discretion. He must have been surprised when a wholesome-looking American girl knocked on the door of his upstairs flat, but his poker face revealed nothing until I got straight to the point.

“I need a passport.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“You are highly recommended, and I will pay whatever it takes.” That got his attention, and after he took a quick look behind me to make sure I wasn’t part of a sting operation, he let me into his shabby apartment. I scanned the tables and shelves piled high with print stock in various colors while he locked and bolted the door behind me.

He was still wary, so I pulled Ashley’s passport out of my purse and put my new photos next to it. “Do you do American passports?”

“It’s possible.”

“I need one, today, with this picture.”

“Today is out of the question.”

“What is your price?”

“Ten thousand euros.”

I knew from the chat room that he was asking considerably more than his going rate, but I didn’t flinch. “Only if I can have it today. Here is the name and address you are to use.” I handed him a slip of paper with the name Madison Monroe, an obscure porn star whose work I enjoyed, and a date and place of birth slightly different from my own. Then I put Ashley’s passport back in my purse and started counting out ten thousand euros in travelers checks.

“I only accept cash.”

“Fine. I’ll cash them myself and return this afternoon. Shall we say three o’clock?”

He nodded, and I waited for him to unbolt the door before I let myself out. Once again I retraced my steps to the station, only this time I went to the ticket office and booked a seat in the name of Maddy Monroe on the high-speed train leaving for Paris at 5:00. After I found a bank and cashed the travelers checks, I wandered the quaint streets of Amsterdam, looking for an out-of-the-way place for lunch. I finally selected a small Indonesian restaurant, where I ordered a rice dish with spicy condiments and a split of French Chardonnay.

This would be my life from now on, I reflected as I sipped my wine with a cigarette. Although I looked completely different now as a brunette, it was only a matter of time before the FBI picked up my trail in Zurich, and I wanted to keep a low profile until I was safely out of Amsterdam. My original impulse in coming to Amsterdam was to admit myself to a gender identity clinic, and begin therapy to turn myself into a woman, but I had a new plan now, and I wanted to put some time and distance between my old life and my new one before I took that fateful step. I was obviously passable as a woman the way I was, and with my new identity and appearance, there would be nothing to link me to the stolen passport I’d used to flee the USA as a blonde named Ashley.

After lunch, I killed some more time window shopping. The department stores were already full of spring fashions, and I found myself wondering what I would look like in a sundress and sandals…and what it would feel like to wear them. One thing was for certain: I’d had enough cold weather to last me a lifetime, and if I had to start my life over as a woman, it was going to be in a warm, sunny climate.

On an impulse, I went inside De Bijenkorf and rode the escalator up to the women’s department. There were racks of summer dresses, and before I knew it, I was in a fitting room trying one on. It was so cute on me! Only it looked strange with my black leather flats, and I’d need a purse to match my new sandals, and a necklace to go with my dress….An hour later, when I went back into the cold, I felt a little warmer thinking about the sundress and other girly things in my shopping bags. “You should have been a girl,” Tracy once told me. Maybe she was right after all!

When I went back outside, I started walking down the sidewalk when I experienced a sensation I’d never felt before. It was the pitter-patter of raindrops on the tops of my feet, coming right through my stockings. Just another of the many joys of being a woman….I went back to the department store and bought a ladies umbrella to protect my new hairdo. Then I found an electronics store for one more acquisition: a throwaway cell phone with a number that was good throughout Europe. I selected an ultra-slim model and prepaid for several months of airtime. I thought about trying to call Tracy, but I didn’t know whether my location could be traced, so I abandoned the thought for then.

At precisely 3:00, I knocked on the door of the forger’s flat. He admitted me immediately, and as soon as the door was closed he presented me with a flawless US passport featuring me with long brown hair, gender female. I complimented him on his handiwork, gave him his ten thousand euros, and let myself out. Ashley’s passport joined her wig in the canals of Amsterdam.

I made it back to the station with a few minutes to spare. After retrieving my suitcase from the left luggage room, I tore off Ashley’s old name tag and dropped it into a trashcan. When the FBI turned up in Amsterdam looking for Ashley, her trail would be stone cold. From now on, I was Maddy Monroe, and until the money ran out, Maddy was going to make the best of her new life.

The Thalys express to Paris featured cushy seats with drinks and dinner for first class passengers. After I selected my wine and entree, a steward came by with a selection of newspapers. I scoured the International Herald Tribune from cover to cover for any news about the Wolf murder investigation, but there was nothing. Dinner was excellent, and I must have dozed off afterwards, because the next thing I knew the four hour trip was almost over.

My seatmate was a preoccupied businessman who spent most of the time on his cell phone talking to his office, his wife and his mistress. I thought back to the distinguished Frenchman I’d shared a dinner table with the night before, at the Zurich train station. I removed his business card from my purse and studied it for the hundredth time. Dr. Jacques Bochy, endocrinologist…a doctor who specialized in hormones. I wondered how he’d react when I called him from Paris to make an appointment? He’d probably think I was stalking him. I put his card back in my purse and used my cell phone to reserve a suite at the Plaza Athenee, and a taxi to take me there from the Gare du Nord.

* * *

I slept until almost noon the following morning. It was my first night in a proper bed since I’d murdered Norman Wolf, and any lingering nightmares over what I’d done were snuffed out by jet lag and sheer exhaustion. I stretched lazily in the sumptuous bedding, enjoying the sensation of my satin nightgown against my smooth skin. It was annoying to notice a bit of stubble starting to grow back on my legs, so I threw off the duvet and started to draw a bath in the ornate tub, peppering the water with moisturizing salts provided by the hotel. I spent a long time luxuriating in the soft, hot suds before I tediously shaved my legs, arms, chest and underarms. As I patted myself dry with a thick cotton towel, I thought of the way Tracy shaved my back the day she transformed me in Chicago. Tracy always had my back…I missed her terribly as I made up my face the way she taught me. I wondered if she’d like me as a brunette? I admired myself in the mirror after I brushed my long brown hair, knowing that the answer would be yes.

I’d cranked up the heat before I got into the tub, and my suite was stifling by the time I got out of the bathroom. Sundress weather! I was curious to see how my new ensemble came together, so on a whim, after I put on a white bra and panties, I stepped into my summer dress and, with difficulty, zipped it up from behind. My new sandals were very cute and comfortable, although the need for a pedicure was immediately apparent. I fastened my mother-of-pearl necklace from behind, again with difficulty — how did girls put up with this stuff? — then I picked up my white purse and walked over to the full-length mirror on the closet door to see what I looked like.

I will never forget that moment. A striking brunette stared back at me in the mirror, with bare shoulders and long legs framed by her pretty little dress. She turned this way and that, mesmerized by how her dress flowed around her knees when she moved. I was almost in a trance, as the realization sunk in that this was really me. Not only did my dress look cute on me, the soft fabric felt wonderful swishing against my bare legs as I walked into the parlor of my suite. I practiced sitting down on the sofa and chairs, crossing my legs and smoothing my dress beneath me, becoming more and more comfortable with myself this way. What started out as a disguise was becoming much, much more….

Hunger pangs finally broke the spell. I turned down the heat and opened the curtains to let in the daylight, such as it was — Paris in February was as gloomy as the weather I’d left behind in Amsterdam. At least it wasn’t snowing like Chicago, I mused as I took off my sundress and rummaged through my suitcase for a gray wool dress and a pair of taupe pantyhose. Once again, I had that feeling of sinful luxury as I eased the delicate nylons up my freshly shaved legs, and I had to admit that my gnarly toes looked much better encased in stockings. I slid them into heels, swapped out my necklace for one in black and gold, and returned to the parlor to order breakfast from room service. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I switched on the TV and flipped through the stations until I came to CNN.

It didn’t take long for my world to come crashing down. “International manhunt for Chicago killer…” read the crawl at the bottom of the screen. A reporter was standing outside the railroad station in Amsterdam, describing the bizarre case of a man who disguised himself as a woman to flee the United States, after he allegedly murdered his former accomplice in a conspiracy to defraud elderly investors. Obviously the Chicago police and the FBI had connected the dots: Matt McCoy was suspected of using a stolen women’s passport to fly first class from O’Hare to Zurich, and Interpol confirmed that a woman with the same name traveled by train from Zurich to Amsterdam the following day.

Thank God I’d used my new identity get out of Amsterdam! There were only two people who might be able to help the police: the forger who created my passport — I had no worries about him talking to anyone — and the woman who sold me my wig. Even if she somehow heard about the investigation and told the police what I looked like now, there were millions of brunettes in Holland, and the odds of them tracking me down in Paris were infinitesimal.

Still, I was shaken when I heard the rap on my door. It was only the room service waiter with my breakfast. I tipped him well and tried to get something down, my stomach still churning from what I’d learned. Once again, I thought of Tracy: she would know by now that I’d lied to her about hiding out in California, and she probably suspected that I’d lied to her about everything else. Knowing that I was taking a terrible risk, I switched on my cell phone and started to punch in her number. Just before I got to the last digit, I stopped myself and put down the phone. If I was going to avoid spending the rest of my life in prison, I couldn’t make any silly, sentimental mistakes! The sooner I put Tracy and my life as a man behind me, the better my chances of survival.

As I munched on my croissant, I had an encouraging thought: now that the police were looking for me as a woman, I could just go back to being a guy, right? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the police would naturally assume that I had already abandoned my female disguise. So the best way to stay one step ahead of them would be to remain in dresses….I picked up my phone again, only this time I used it to call Dr. Jacques Bochy. His receptionist answered. “Halo?”

“Hello, my name is Maddy. I met the doctor in Zurich. Can I speak to him please?”

The receptionist was undoubtedly accustomed to the doctor’s philandering, for she put me through without delay. “Maddy, what a pleasant surprise!” Jacques said when he came on the line.

“Hi! You’ll never guess where I am,” I said with forced girlishness.

“Paris would be too much to hope for.”

“Yep! And I’m calling to make an appointment.”

“For medical reasons?”

“Well, it’s kinda personal…do you think you could see me today?”

“My appointments are booked weeks in advance, Maddy. However, I do happen to be free for dinner this evening.” I wasn’t expecting that…. “We can discuss whatever you like, in a quiet setting, and afterwards if you want to see me in my office, I’ll fit you in somehow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Plaza Athenee.”

“I’ll book a table at Le Relais at seven. Until then.” He hung up before I could reply.

I spent the day shopping for something to wear. The only thing I owned that was appropriate was the little black dress I’d worn the night I murdered Norman Wolf, and I didn’t feel quite right about wearing it again. I might have been a millionairess many times over, but the boutiques of Paris were frightfully expensive, and I couldn’t find anything that looked half as good on my rather unique physique. I did splurge on some glittery pantyhose and an exquisite French perfume, and I bit the bullet and had my ears pierced. It hurt more than I expected, and I was very aware of my new platinum studs as I shopped for a Vuitton suitcase to replace the worn out roller bag I stole from Ashley. By the time I paid for it and caught a taxi back to my hotel, it was time to get dressed for dinner.

Le Relais is a chic bistro which adjoins the Plaza Athenee. At a few minutes past seven, decked out in my little black dress, shimmering legs and strappy black heels, I showed up for my date with Jacques. He was standing at the bar, and he didn’t recognize me at first with my long brown hair. When he did, his face lit up with a big smile, and he took my hands and kissed me on both cheeks. “Maddy! You never cease to surprise and delight me!”

I’m sure I was blushing when I kissed him back, and I was at a loss for words after we were shown to a romantic booth in a quiet corner of the crowded bistro. He offered me a cigarette, which he lit with a flourish before lighting up one of his own. “Talk about surprises, I didn’t think doctors smoked anymore,” I said idotically.

“My dear Maddy, there are all kinds of doctors, just as there are all kinds of beautiful women. Take you, for example.”

“What about me?” I asked as I tried to perform a French inhale.

“Well, for one thing, in less than forty-eight hours you have completely changed your appearance, in a dramatic and exciting way. I love that in a woman!”

“That’s me, dramatic and exciting. I love this place,” I said, taking in the smart furnishings and the well-heeled customers.

“It suits you. You look fabulous in that dress.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing again. He had deep brown eyes, and a penetrating stare which seemed to go right through me. “I tried to find a new one today, but can you believe the boutiques of Paris didn’t have a dress I liked?”

“That says more about you than the boutiques of Paris, Maddy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He squeezed my hand. “That you are a unique and discriminating person.” The wine list arrived, and he ordered decisively before resuming our conversation. “That is one of the many things I find fascinating about you.”

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t even sure you would remember me.”

He chuckled softly. “To the contrary, how could I forget you?” The waiter returned with our wine, and Jacques waited until it was served before continuing. “As a doctor, I am trained in observation. Let’s add up what I have noticed so far: You are undeniably beautiful, with a very athletic physique, which I find attractive in a woman. Also you have a flair for style, take your hair for example, although you obviously must rely on wigs.” I started to choke on my wine. “Then there is the charming way you have of doing the little things that come naturally to most women. For example, when we said goodbye in Zurich, you forgot your purse. Very unusual.” I could feel the tears starting to run down my cheeks, wondering why he was subjecting me to this humiliation. Jacques saw them too, and he removed the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wiped them away. “My darling Maddy,” he whispered, “please don’t be upset. Nobody in the world except a doctor trained in my specialty could possibly detect your secret.”

I tried to get up to leave. He gently but firmly sat me back down and spoke before I could protest. “Maddy, I have treated hundreds of men who wished to become women. Some of them have gone on to careers in the theatre, broadcasting, even modeling. I can say without exaggeration that you are the most innately feminine man I have ever met.” His words cut me like a knife, and the tears started again. “What fascinates me about you is your obvious unwillingness to accept this. It’s almost as if you are becoming a woman against your will, even though you must know, deep down, that it is your destiny.”

The waiter returned to take our orders. Perhaps he thought we were having a lovers’ quarrel, they way Jacque kept wiping the tears from my eyes, and he stood patiently while Jacques ordered for both of us. My head was spinning so fast that I couldn’t think about food, where I was or what I was doing. When we were alone again, Jacques pressed on. “By whatever chance, you have discovered this about yourself, and it terrifies you. Maddy, I don’t have to know why you are dressed as a woman. If you want me to help you fulfill you destiny, it is within my power to do so. Now, let’s enjoy our wine and dinner and talk about other things.”

I excused myself to go to the ladies room. My mascara was a mess, and I needed a few minutes alone to think. Okay, so Jacques had made me as a woman. After all, he was used to working with transsexuals. The same thing would have come out during a five minute consultation in his office. Instead, it happened to me while I was wearing a little black dress in a romantic restaurant! The end result was the same: I needed his help, and he seemed more than willing to provide it. Looking at myself in the mirror, at the beautiful woman I was in the process of becoming, I knew the real reason I was so upset: Jacques had confirmed my innermost fears about myself. Through a bizarre set of circumstances, I had unleashed my inner woman, and she was slowly but surely taking over my existence.

When I returned to our table, Jacques was patiently waiting for me, along with our entrees. “You look lovely,” he reassured me.

“Thank you. I’m so sorry for the way I reacted.” I lifted my fork and tasted my filet of sole. It was delicious.

“Nonsense,” he said between bites. “If you think you are emotional now, wait until I put you on hormones.”

I put down my fork and took his hand. “You are amazing. How did you know that’s what I wanted?”

He chuckled softly again. “It is my profession. I can write you a prescription tonight. After we finish our dinners, of course. Then there is the little matter of your physical examination, which I am technically required to perform.”

“Oh. Where do I go for that?”

“Your room at the Plaza Athenee will be perfectly satisfactory.”

After coffee and dessert, Jacques escorted me through the hotel lobby and up to my suite. He seemed impressed, and said so. “As I observed, you have a flair for style.”

I sat down nervously on the sofa. “Do you really have to examine me?”

“Relax, Maddy. There are many ways to examine the human body.”

I had no idea where this might be going, but I was curious to find out. I liked him, he seemed genuinely interested in helping, and I was intrigued by his interest in me. I unstrapped my heels and stretched out on the sofa, propping my glittering legs up on a pillow. “What did you have in mind?”

He sat down beside me on the sofa and gently stroked my legs through my nylons. I felt the same intense excitement I’d experienced when Tracy did that to me, only now I was with a man….he leaned down and brushed his lips against mine, softly at first, then again with surprising passion. After a moment’s hesitation, I responded the same way, drowning in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. Then he had my dress off my shoulders and he was slowly but surely pulling it down, down…I gasped when he tugged my pantyhose and panties to my knees, and we both stared as my penis sprang to attention. “Ooh la la!” Jacques exclaimed. He took it into his hands and stroked it tenderly. “Maddy,” he whispered, “depending on what I prescribe, this may no longer be possible. Are you sure you want that?”

“No,” I whimpered.

“I can put you on hormones which will enable you to develop luscious breasts, and for a time you may not be able to experience erections like this, but once your breasts have blossomed, it should be possible again. Is that what you really want?”

“Yes,” I groaned.

“Very well. Now you see why a physical examination was necessary.” He gave me a few expert tugs and I erupted onto my hairless chest, splattering my brassiere with gobs of hot semen. The waves of guilty pleasure quickly passed, and I felt embarrassed and ashamed while he wrote out my prescription, his manner suddenly quite clinical. I took the prescription from him, still lying half naked on the sofa, bewildered by his change in manner. “You see, Maddy, you are not the only one who has to deal with conflicting emotions,” he sighed. “I am happily married, yet I find myself hopelessly drawn towards a woman like you. Perhaps when your body has changed to match your psyche, I will find the courage to fulfill my destiny also. Until then, au revoir.” I lay there sobbing while he let himself out of my suite.

I was up early the next morning, determined to wash away my memories of the night before under a hot shower. After dressing quickly in a skirt, sweater and tights, with very little makeup, I practiced twisting my long brown hair into a ponytail. The resulting look was that of a casual young woman on the go, her inner demons hidden somewhere deep below.

A croissant and coffee at Le Relais brought back unpleasant memories. I couldn’t believe that I’d kissed a guy, and let him touch me down there. Then again, I had to admit to myself that the kiss was no different than kissing a girl, and it actually seemed natural to me when I was dressed this way. I reached into my purse for my prescription for female hormones. Once I started taking them, I’d be past the point of no return. Although if I was honest with myself, I had to admit that I was past that point already.

I asked the concierge to point me towards the nearest drug store. There I waited while Dr. Jacques Bochy’s prescription was filled. He’d written it to give me a good supply to start with, and I confirmed with the pharmacist that it was refillable anywhere in Europe. As soon as I was back in my suite, I gulped down the first pill and packed my new Vuitton suitcase. Then I was off in a taxi to Charles de Gaulle, where an airplane was waiting to take me to the sunshine.

* * *

Six months later, I woke as always to the sound of a distant rooster. I’d come to envy him, as my manhood slowly slipped away, and this morning was no exception. While he was getting his rocks off in the henhouse, I went through my now-familiar routines in the bathroom: shampooing my shoulder-length hair, shaving my legs in the tub, and putting on my makeup. After drying and brushing out my hair, I tucked my dwindling manhood into a pair of panties and fastened a bra around my burgeoning breasts. A glance out the window promised another warm, sunny day, so I put on the sundress I’d brought with me from Amsterdam, and padded barefoot into the kitchen of my villa in the hills of Provence.

I gazed out the kitchen window at the distant ribbon of Mediterranean Sea, just visible through the thick canopy of trees. If I’d intended to stay any longer, I would have asked the landlord to trim them back, but today was to be my last day in this little paradise, so I left them for the next tenant to deal with. When I moved in back in February, I’d made a list of ambitious projects to occupy my time here, and I looked at it sadly after I made my morning coffee. The only things I’d managed to grow weren’t in the garden: a full head of lustrous brown hair, and a proud pair of large, lovely breasts.

Even with my new figure, my weight was down ten pounds, and my expanding hips made my girlish waist look even smaller. Thanks to the hormones prescribed by Jacques, my skin was much softer and smoother, and after several sessions with an electrologist in Nice, my beard was a distant memory. My legs were tanned to a golden bronze, and I couldn’t remember that last time I’d worn stockings. With a sigh, I slipped into a pair of canvas espadrilles — much cuter on my feet than sandals — and made my way into a small office with the computer I’d purchased in Nice shortly after I moved in.

As always, I began by searching the Internet for news about the international manhunt for me. The Wolf murder was old news by now, and as far as I could tell, the authorities were still floundering in their attempts to pick up my trail. I wondered if they were still monitoring Tracy’s emails? Despite all the publicity, she stubbornly believed in my innocence, although my family had long ago disowned me.

Other than my daily trips to the market in Provence, my email correspondence with Tracy was my only form of human interaction. I longed to see her again, to show her what I’d become. She seemed fascinated by my veiled accounts of my transformation, and I remembered how turned on she’d been the first time she dressed me in her clothes. The sex we had that day was the best in my life, and I sadly tried to remember that last time I’d had an erection. I desperately longed to be with Tracy again, only not as sisters….I sent her a brief email confirming our upcoming plans, then I logged off and removed the hard drive from my computer.

It didn’t take long to pack my worldly possessions into my Vuitton suitcase. I’d weeded out most of my winter clothes by now, assembling a stylish wardrobe of summery outfits during occasional shopping forays on the Riviera. With my emerging curves, I was able to wear shorts and capris with confidence, but for some reason I felt more comfortable in skirts and dresses these days. After a long last look around the villa, I left the keys on the kitchen counter, closed the door behind me, and tossed my suitcase into the trunk of my bright red BMW convertible.

The drive to Monte Carlo was spectacular, on winding two-lane roads which hugged the rugged coastline. My little car handled them with ease, and I was able to enjoy the view with the wind in my hair. When I was sure no other cars were in sight, I tossed the hard drive deep into a glade. A pretty girl in the red convertible attracts plenty of attention from other drivers and pedestrians, something I’d never get used to.

After I crossed the border into Monaco, I pulled over to the side of the road to consult my Michelin guide. The hotel I was looking for was in the heart of Monte Carlo, and with the summer traffic, I was very late by the time I left my car with the valet and made my way into the lobby. The elegant Belle á‰poque hotel oozed with old money and glamour. Newly rich and newly female, I felt very out of place.

I tried to ignore the hungry leers from the men surrounding me on the elevator. At least none of them tried to pinch my ass through my sundress! When I got to the right floor, I took a moment in front of a gilded mirror to brush my hair and freshen my lipstick before I tapped on the appointed door.

“Maddy!” Jacques beamed when he opened the door. “Mon Dieu, fantastique!”

“Sorry I’m late. You look nice.” And he did, in his French blue shirt and paisley ascot. He couldn’t take his eyes off my chest, which made me very self-conscious. Better get used to it! “Is that professional interest?” I teased him as I took in my luxurious surroundings.

“But of course,” he smiled. “You are one of my medical triumphs.”

Jacques’ suite had a spectacular view of the marina. I walked over to the balcony and stared, mesmerized by the armada of enormous yachts lolling in the turquoise water. “Wow,” was all I could say.

“Wow,” he said back as he placed his hands on my bronzed shoulders. I broke free and sat down on an opulent loveseat, swooshing my dress over my knees with practiced grace. I reached into my purse waited for Jacques to light my offered cigarette.

“It was so nice of you to meet me here,” I said through a veil of smoke.

“Paris has been abandoned to the tourists, as always in August. I am vacationing en famille, so it was convenient for me to meet you on the Cote d’Azur, but I would have gone halfway around the world to see you again, Maddy.”

“You’re very sweet.” After months of self-absorption, I had become much more confident and familiar with my femininity. “How can I ever repay the man who turned me into a woman?”

“I’m sure we can think of something,” he replied smoothly. “Champagne?” he asked, popping open a bottle of Piper. I waited for the bubbles to subside before taking a dainty sip. “How are you feeling in your new body?” he probed.

“I’m getting used to it, except for one thing.”

He sat down next to me and took my hand. “What is that, my Cheri?”

“Remember when you asked me whether I wanted to…have erections again someday?”

He sat up straight, and when he replied, his manner was aloof, professional. “Is that what you really want?”

“Jacques, I owe you more than you will ever know.” He started to interrupt, but I held up my hand. “It’s not the hormones. It’s what you said to me that night. For the first time in my life, someone asked me what I really wanted. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I think I know. Only it may not be what you expect.”

He studied me curiously after he refilled our champagne glasses. “There are two possibilities,” he said at length. “Do you know what they are?”

“The first is that I decide to go all the way with this, become your mistress, and live a life of great beauty in France.”

“Don’t think that fantasy hasn’t occurred to me, every day and night, since we parted in Paris. But that’s not what you want, is it?”

“No, Jacques, it isn’t.”

“Is it another man, or a woman?”

“A woman, someone who knew me from before. In fact, she’s the one who first got me into this, and she loves me this way. I want to be able to love her back, Jacques. Can you help me?”

“Of course,” he said with a forced smile. “In a way, I’m relieved. My behavior towards you has been unforgivable.” I tried to cut him off. “I should never have allowed myself to become involved with a patient. It’s just that you are so damned beautiful…and vulnerable too, at least you were that night we met. But not any more.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You are the most wonderful man.”

He pulled a pad out of his pocket and started writing a prescription. “You’ll forgive me if we dispense with the physical examination this time,” he said dryly. “I am putting you on a much lower dosage of estrogen, a maintenance formula, which will enable you to regain a sufficient level of potency, although most of your problems are in your head. There is no reason why you can’t father a child, if you wish.” I started to stammer my thanks, but he cut me off. “Take this and go, quickly, before I change my mind and beg you to stay.”

I put the prescription in my purse and ran out the door, without looking back. Tears were streaming down my face as I drove towards Nice. I’d just thrown away my chance to be the pampered mistress of a prominent physician in Paris, who loved me, and who understood me better than anyone else in the world. I wiped away my tears and reminded myself that there was one other person who knew me even better, and who loved me even more. If what Jacques told me was true, I might even be able to love her again.

After I returned my BMW to the leasing office in Nice, I asked if someone could give me a lift to the airport. Three different guys volunteered to take the pretty girl for a drive.

By now I’d moved some of my Swiss funds into a French bank account in the name of Madison Monroe. Using one of my new credit cards, I’d booked a seat in business class on the evening British Airways flight to London. My forged passport worked flawlessly once again, and after I checked my suitcase and went through passport control, I killed an hour in the Executive Club prowling the Internet. My encrypted email messages to Tracy linked to a chat room that we used to exchange vital information, and I wanted to make sure there was no last-minute change in plans. Before I logged off, I checked the weather in London. To my dismay, I learned that it was going to be unseasonably cold, with frequent showers.

The flight to Heathrow was uneventful. I was watching my weight to keep my girlish figure, although I indulged in a split of wine with dinner to calm my nerves. I knew I was taking a terrible risk by leaving my lair, and I felt very vulnerable and exposed in my skimpy little dress. It was cool on the plane, so I wrapped myself up in an airline blanket and fell into a restless sleep.

If I thought it was cool on the plane, it was downright cold when we got to London. Rain lashed my window while we taxied to our gate, and as soon I’d passed through customs and immigration and gotten into the taxi rank, I knew that my suitcase full of summer skirts and dresses would be tragic in the English weather. I’m sure the other passengers waiting for their taxis enjoyed the spectacle of the half naked woman pawing through her suitcase for something to put on. I found a thin cardigan sweater, the warmest thing I owned, and draped it over my shivering shoulders.

My hotel was in Knightsbridge. I turned in as soon as I got to my room, and I slept until mid-morning. The skies were blessedly clear, although BBC forecast chilly weather and intermittent showers, so I dressed hastily in capris and my sweater, then I placed a quick call to my bank in Zurich before I walked the few short blocks to Brompton Road. Thanks to the miracle of compound interest, my balance had increased by over $100,000, and I transferred most if it into my French account.

Good thing, I’d need it! One of the things I almost enjoyed about being a woman was the opportunity to wear the cute clothes that I used to like on chicks. I always had a thing for Burberrys, and before I knew it I was trying on wool skirts and dresses in their trademark plaid. A few thousand pounds later, wearing my new Burberrys trench coat, I was in a taxi back to my hotel, surrounded by shopping bags full of tights, sweaters, purses and shoes to complete my ensembles.

Girlish figure or no, I treated myself to an English breakfast at the hotel restaurant, and then I found a pharmacy to fill my new prescription. While I was waiting, I filled a shopping basket with cosmetics, moisturizing lotions, and hair accessories before returning to my room to prepare myself for what was to come. First I shampooed and conditioned my long brown hair. Then a bubble bath and a full body shave, which were becoming much less frequent since the hormones took over. Lingering in the tub, I thought back to Jacques’ final words to me: “most of your problems are in your head…” While I soaped what was left of myself in the tub, I wondered I would ever be able to love a woman again?

It hardly seemed possible as I dressed myself for the day ahead. My full, round breasts welcomed the caress of a silky black brassiere, and my newly-rounded hips fit snugly into my matching panties. Then I removed the towel from my hair and patiently dried and styled it with my new butterfly clips. Sheer black thigh high stockings were next — I’d almost forgotten how wonderful hose felt on my legs, and I eased them on lovingly. A black cashmere turtleneck sweater, a lacy half slip, my plaid Burberrys skirt, and black pumps with gold stirrups completed my outfit.

Looking at the beautiful woman in the full-length mirror, I knew that both Tracy and Jacques were right: I should have been a girl…this was my destiny. After a glance at the clock on the nightstand, I hurriedly put on my jewelry and cologne, organized my purse, and let myself out.

Half an hour later, I was sitting in the lobby of a bustling commercial hotel when a convoy of flight attendants came through the revolving door. There she was, pulling her suitcase, wearing the same navy blue topcoat that I’d borrowed from her that first day, a lifetime ago. I buried my nose in the Evening Standard and waited until she’d checked in and received her key. After I made sure she wasn’t being followed, I got up and fell in behind her as she stood in line at the crowded elevators.

As prearranged, I said nothing until we were alone in the corridor outside her room. “Tracy,” I said in Matt’s old voice. She spun around on her heel, and at first she didn’t recognize me.

“Oh…my…God!” she gasped as she rushed into my arms. Our breasts pressed together, and she momentarily pulled away, a look of astonishment on her beautiful face. “Is that really you?”

“Yes,” I said ruefully. “It’s really me, Tracy.”

She took me into her arms and hugged me again. I took the key from her quivering hand and opened the door. We tumbled into her room, still locked in an embrace, pawing at each other as we fell onto the bed. I kissed her deeply, and she moaned in response, her fingers caressing my silky hair. “Oh Matt…Maddy…I missed you so much!”

“I love you, Tracy,” I whispered into her ear.

“I love you too, baby,” she panted as she tore at my clothes. I felt her hands probing under my skirt, then she was feeling my breasts through my sweater, and pretty soon she was tugging it over my head. I lay back passively and let her explore my new body, sharing in her wonder at what had become of me. When she finally unsnapped my bra, her eyes were fierce with desire, and when she teased my tender nipples with her teeth, for the first time in memory I felt a stirring below my waist. The wonderful glow intensified when she eased my panties down to my knees, although my penis could only tremble softly when she took it into her mouth. I thought back to the words Jacques had spoken to me…it’s mostly in your head…and to my wonderment, I felt myself beginning to stiffen as she sucked on me while she caressed my silky stockings. From deep within my body, the beginnings of an orgasm began to grow, softly at first, then suddenly with an urgency that took us both by surprise. Tears filled my eyes when the first delightful spasms shook my body, and I cried out again and again as the sweet waves of ecstasy went on and on.

When it was finally over, I sat up and peeled off my stockings. Tracy could only stare at my beautiful body, still in awe over what was happening. I kissed her gently on the lips, and then I started in on her, feeling a strange familiarity as I gently removed her skirt, her lingerie, her stockings…when I caressed her breasts, it was with newfound bliss, and to my complete surprise, I felt myself stiffening again. Tracy felt it too, and we stared at each other in wonder as she guided me into her, bucking her hips to the once forgotten thrusting, our nipples throwing off sparks as our breasts brushed together. My body responding with unbridled joy as I found what I thought I had lost forever, until we both surrendered to shattering, simultaneous orgasms.

When our love and lust were completely consumed, we lay side by side for a long time, lost in our separate thoughts. Tracy finally broke the silence.

“Just when I thought I might be gay.”

“Just when I thought I might be a woman.”

“Just promise me you’ll stay this way.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any choice.”

“When are you coming back to clear your name?”

It was the question I’d been dreading. “Tracy, I have to tell you something.”

Her voice became guarded. “What is it?”

“I lied to you.”

“About what?”

“About that night with Norman Wolf. Tracy, he really did set me up. But when I went to his apartment that night, there was an accident. I never meant to do it, but I killed him.”

She didn’t respond for a long time as it slowly sank in. “When are you going to turn yourself in?” she asked at length.

“I can’t, Tracy. They’ll never believe that it was really an accident.”

“How do I know whether to believe you now? My God, you killed a man! How can you live with yourself?”

How could I begin to explain what it was like, throwing away my identity, my family, even my manhood…looking over my shoulder every day, one small mistake away from spending the rest of my life in an Illinois prison?

“If you keep running, you can never go back home…how are you going to support yourself?”

No one in the world knew the answer to that question but me. Norman Wolf had covered up his crimes brilliantly, and the contents of his safe were an unsolved mystery. And I didn’t want Tracy to know. How could I ever be sure of her love if it came with the knowledge of my hidden millions? I bit my tongue and remained silent.

“I just can’t believe you think you’re going to get away with it. Do you know how many times I’ve spotted the FBI or the cops watching me, wondering if they were tapping my phone or opening my mail? I just can’t live like this, Matt.”

“What are you saying, Tracy?”

“Go! Get out, dammit, before I call the police myself. You frighten me….” Her voice trailed off in fits of sobbing, before she got up and slammed the bathroom door behind her.

When she finally returned, I was almost dressed. She watched silently as I slipped my stockings back on and stepped into my heels. I started to say something, but she cut me off. “I just can’t believe that you did this to me. It was one thing to ask me to help you, but to expect me to help you get away with murder?” Her sobs started again, and I let myself out without saying goodbye.

Terry’s recriminations were ringing in my ears as I took the long way back to my hotel. It was raining again, but I didn’t take out my umbrella. I buried my hands in the pockets of my trench coat and stared at my feet, like I did the first time I went out with Tracy as a woman, feeling utterly miserable and very alone.

I pulled myself together after I got back to my room. Packing quickly, I called for my bill and a taxi to Waterloo Station, were the last Eurostar to Paris would soon be boarding.

After I bought my ticket, I showed my passport to the French border police, passed through the security line, and found my seat in one of the first class carriages. As I picked at my meal, I thought back despondently over my disastrous rendezvous with Tracy. If only I’d kept my big mouth shut! But the more I thought about it, the more I knew that I had to tell her the truth if there was to be any future for us, and in a way I was relieved at the finality of it all. With the last of my testosterone sapped by our incredible lovemaking, the woman deep within me was asserting herself once again, and she knew what she wanted.

Coolly, I recounted what I’d conveyed to Tracy about my whereabouts. All she knew was that I was living in Europe and using the name Maddy. Of course she also knew that I’d grown my hair and developed breasts, but she knew nothing about my fake identification, the full name I was using, or the fortune stashed away in my Swiss bank account. I didn’t think she’d turn on me, but even if she did, it would only lead the authorities on another wild goose chase, in London this time.

I closed my eyes and replayed our lovemaking once again. It was wonderful, amazing…but I had to be honest with myself. Kissing Tracy had been less exciting than kissing Jacques, which seemed strangely natural to me now. There was something tantalizing about being the passive one, yielding willingly to his passion, and I wondered what it would be like to give myself to him completely.…

My reverie was shattered when we shot past a Eurostar racing in the opposite direction, each of us moving at almost 200 miles per hour through the French countryside. Less than three hours after we left London, we were pulling into the Gare du Nord. I took a taxi to the Plaza Athenee once again, and asked if the same suite was available. It was.

The nasty weather followed me across the channel. I waited until nine o’clock before calling Dr. Bochy’s office. His officious receptionist answered at once. “Halo?”

“This is Maddy Monroe. Is the doctor in?”

“No Mademoiselle, he is still on holiday.”

“There is a problem with a prescription he gave me. Can you please ask him to call me at his earliest convenience?”

“What sort of problem?”

“Please just give him the message. It’s urgent.” I gave her the number of my suite at the Plaza Athenee and rang off.

I was trying to decide what to wear when the telephone rang. “Maddy,” Jacques said. “What are you doing in Paris?”

“Waiting for you.”

“According to my office, there is a problem with your new prescription.”

“I lied.”

“I see…what about your lady friend?”

“I’m afraid she lost out to your fantasy woman.”

“Hmm…this is serious. Fortunately I can return to Paris this afternoon, and this time a physical examination will definitely be necessary.”

“Le Relais at seven?”

“Until then.”

This time the boutiques of Paris didn’t disappoint me. When I entered the packed bistro a few minutes past seven, I turned the heads of half the men in the room. Jacques was waiting for me at the same romantic booth, and he beamed at the sight of me in my frilly white confection. “You look sensational!”

“Do you like my new dress?” I did a little twirl before I sat down beside him in a froth of tulle. “I bought it just for you.”

“I adore it on you.” He kissed my hand, lingering a few inches away from my breasts, which were barely contained by my halter top.

“I’m up here,” I teased him. For once, he was the one who blushed, and we shared a moment of silent contentment after he lit our cigarettes. “I hope you didn’t end your vacation just for me.”

“Duty calls. Madame Bochy was prevailed upon by her mother to stay in Monte Carlo for another week,” he winked conspiratorially.

Jacques must have ordered champagne before I came in, and I offered a toast after our glasses were filled. “To your mother-in-law,” I said with a sly grin.

“How appropriate… they use this champagne to christen battleships.” We laughed at our silly jokes as we drank, staring at each other over the rims of our glasses. “Tell me Maddy,” he asked at length, “what made you come back?”

I felt totally at ease with Jacques, so I bared my soul to him. “When I was a man, sex was the most important thing in the world to me. The day after I told you goodbye forever, I had it once again. Don’t get me wrong, it was wonderful, but afterwards….”

“Go on, Maddy.”

“That’s not what I want any more.”

“And what is it that you want, Maddy?”

“I want it all, Jacques. If I have to live the rest of my life as a woman, I don’t want to be half a man. I want you to make me into your woman.” There, I’d said it! I started to sniffle, and Jacques produced his handkerchief once again. The wait staff at Le Relais must have thought he was a brute. “I’m sorry, Jacques, I’m so screwed up!”

“To the contrary, you are the most insightful person I have ever met, man or woman. When I think of your metamorphosis during those lonely months in your cocoon in Provence…it is time to spread your wings, my little butterfly.” He lifted my chin and pressed his lips against mine. The world stopped as we lost ourselves in a French kiss, exploring each other like we were the only two people in the world. I pressed my legs against his, and when he touched my naked knees, I slid his hand closer and closer to my forsaken jewels….

When at last we opened our eyes, a waiter was standing by our table, regarding us with amusement. Once again, Jacques ordered for both of us, and when he spoke to me again, he was very much the man in charge. “We’ve much to do. Tomorrow morning, I will refer you to a gifted surgeon who has performed many miracles for my patients.” I must have looked startled, because he quickly added, “Don’t worry, Cheri. There is a mandatory waiting period, during which you will be required to live completely as a woman under my care. In the afternoon, I will show you a furnished apartment in the 5th Arrondissement that was recently vacated by an acquaintance of mine….”

“I don’t need a gilded cage, Jacques. There are some things about me that you should know….”

He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “I have never understood the American mania for ‘closure’. Whatever demons pursued you into my world are hereby pronounced dead on arrival in Paris. Carpe diem.”

I yielded to him with a girlish shrug. “I’m going to have to learn French.”

“Actually, it’s Latin, from a poem by Horace. He recited it from memory:

Don’t ask, it’s dangerous to know what end the gods will give you Better just to deal with whatever comes your way Whether you’ll see many more winters Or whether the last one is now pelting the shore with the waves Be wise, drink your wine, scale back your long hopes to the moment Even as we speak, jealous time is running away from us Seize the day, trusting little in the future.”

* * *

* * *

I stood outside the door while Jacques made a quick survey of the apartment. Apparently it hadn’t been occupied in several weeks, and with the return of the summer heat, it must have been very stuffy, because I could hear him drawing back curtains and opening windows. When he returned, he was perspiring slightly, and he took a moment to mop his forehead with his silk handkerchief before he surprised me by lifting me off my feet and carrying me over the threshold.

I let him kiss me gently on the lips before he put me down. After the night we’d spent together in the bedroom of my suite at the Plaza Athenee, it was feeling quite natural to respond to him as a woman, and we lingered over another kiss before he showed me around my new surroundings. “In the morning, the sunlight is marvelous,” he was saying, “and you can just see the spires of Notre Dame from this window.” I stood next to him, looking out over the expanse of tiled rooftops towards the Seine, listening to the cacophony of traffic in the Latin Quarter. I could afford to live anywhere I wanted, but how could I top this? I followed him through the elegantly furnished parlor into the charming boudoir, where an imposing Louis XVI bed promised endless delights to come….

I thought back to the night we’d just spent together, my first as a woman. Jacques had been so gentle, patiently probing the new erotic hotspots on my trembling body, sensing when to linger and when to push…he’d lovingly undressed me before we slid under the duvet, and after he rolled me onto my tummy, I surrendered completely when he eased himself into my quivering ass. At first I thought I was going to burst, but his hot breath whispered encouragement as he nuzzled my ear. Once I knew that he was inside me, my resistance yielded to his steady advances, and I reveled to sublime jolts each time he poked my prostate. While one hand kneaded my nubile breasts, and the other stroked my whimpering cock, he eased himself in and out, in and out, until we both came in a rush of exquisite pleasure.

I’d lain there, weeping softly, after he popped out and went into the bathroom to take a quick shower. My feelings of shame and remorse were tempered by the knowledge that my fate would have been the same had I turned myself in. Only then, instead of enjoying the tender mercies of a gentle lover in Paris, I would have been taking it up the ass from hardened criminals at the Menard Correctional Facility.

* * *

After Jacques left me, I occupied the rest of the day becoming familiar with my new surroundings. It didn’t take me long to unpack my Vuitton suitcase, and it seemed strangely permanent to put away my lingerie and stockings in dresser drawers. My wardrobe may have been meager, but everything I had was very chic: summer skirts and dresses from Saint Tropez, the latest fall fashions from Knightsbridge, and my one Paris original, which I carefully hung in the bedroom closet. Although the apartment was in a historic building and filled with antiques, it was equipped with modern conveniences, and I was pleased to discover a state-of-the-art microwave and espresso machine in the kitchen, as well as a personal computer in an alcove off the parlor.

I was wearing my favorite sundress from De Bijenkorf in Amsterdam, which would be perfect for a late summer afternoon, but I noticed a few clouds gathering in the distance, so I tied a cashmere sweater around my neck before I stepped into a cute pair of ballet flats for my first foray into the Latin Quarter. During my six months in Provence, I’d become used to daily trips to town for the fresh breads and produce that are the staple of French cuisine. I was inspecting the lettuce at a local market when my cell phone rang in my purse. “Hello?” I answered after I fished it out.

“Maddy, where are you? I tried calling you at the apartment.” It was Jacques.

“Shopping.”

“But of course, how like a woman…I was calling to make arrangements for dinner.”

“That’s very sweet, Jacques, but I’ve already planned our menu for tonight.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not used to cooking for two, so I can’t make any promises, but I don’t think you’ll go home hungry. Appetizers will be served promptly at seven.”

“You never cease to surprise and delight me!”

“Just bring the wine, okay?”

“Rouge or blanc?”

“Better make it one of each.” I rang off and put my phone back in my purse. Then I busied myself with the womanly task of planning a romantic dinner for my man.

* * *

Jacques arrived precisely at seven, damn him! I was still fussing with the place settings, and I hadn’t had time to put the camembert in the microwave. “Let yourself in,” I shouted on my way to the bedroom. I heard him opening the door and inspecting the kitchen while I hurriedly brushed my hair and touched up my makeup. Then I took a deep breath to compose myself before I waltzed serenely into the parlor. “I guess the custom of being fashionably late didn’t originate in France,” I pouted.

“To the contrary, punctuality is a dying art in Paris, except when a beautiful woman is involved,” he said as he opened a bottle of Chardonnay. The microwave beeped, and I took a moment to put on a pinafore apron, tying it behind my back while Jacques looked on with amusement. “Surely you didn’t find that here?” he asked.

“Are you kidding? When was the last time one of your kept women cooked you a meal?” I taunted him.

“This is a first,” he acknowledged as he opened the other bottle of wine with a flourish. “Voila! My work is done here.”

“Men!” I placed a platter of melted camembert with slices of baguette on the coffee table and sat down next to Jacques, self-consciously playing with the hem of my apron while I waited for him to pour the wine. The crystal in the apartment was baccarat, and after we clinked our glasses I drained half of mine in one unladylike swig.

“Tell me, Maddy, what possessed you to do this?” Jacques asked as he refilled my glass.

“There are some things we need to discuss, and not in a crowded restaurant.” That morning, Jacques had placed a call to Dr. Villiers, a colleague who specialized in sexual reassignment surgery. I had an appointment with him the following morning, and I wanted to know what I was getting into. “What’s going to happen tomorrow morning?”

“Dr. Villiers will conduct a more traditional physical examination than I’ve performed on you,” Jacques chuckled. “He will assess the progress of your feminization, and establish a schedule for your surgery.”

“What exactly would that involve?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Maddy, I have observed the procedure many times. The technical aspects aren’t for the squeamish. Are you sure you want to talk about this before we eat?”

I nodded as I drained my glass. Jacques refilled it once again while I nervously nibbled on a slice of bread and cheese.

“Very well,” he sighed. “After your testicles are removed, the remnants of your scrotum will be used to create the labia for your vagina. The vagina itself will be lined with the skin from your penis after it is amputated, and the stump will be reconstructed into a clitoris. And of course, your urethra will be redirected to enable you to urinate like a woman.” I felt the bile beginning to rise in my stomach. “The recovery process takes several weeks, and is frankly very painful because of the necessity to dilate your new vagina regularly to keep it from closing up….”

I bolted out of the parlor towards the boudoir. Before I could make it into the bathroom, I threw up into the folds of my pinafore.

* * *

Jacques’ belated efforts to salvage our dinner were to no avail. After a restless night alone in my new bed, I felt almost human when I awoke before dawn. I was famished after going without dinner, so I wrapped my robe around my nightgown and fixed myself an omelet and a double espresso.

Listlessly, I sat down at the computer and booted it up. Before I went on the Internet to do some research on sex change surgery, I decided to check my emails, on the off-chance that there might be messages from my old life. To my surprise, there were two from Tracy. My heart sank as I read the first one:

Maddy, I’m still mad at you for lying to me about what you did to Norman Wolf, although I’m willing to believe that it was an accident. I’m sorry I lost it after you told me, I was hurt that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, and I realize now how hard it must have been for you to tell me, and what you must be going through. I’m worried about you, although from your clothes and jewelry it looks like you aren’t exactly starving. Please be careful, I still think you should turn yourself in, Tracy PS — I like you as a brunette

Silly, stupid bitch! I had to assume that the FBI and the police were still monitoring her emails. Not only had she pinned me to the wall as Norman Wolf’s killer, her catty comments about my expensive clothes and jewelry might even have tipped them off about my stolen millions. Not only that, she’d alerted the authorities to the fact that I was still disguised as a woman, down to the color of my hair…the last thing I needed now was to make this permanent!

I looked down in dismay at my heaving breasts. Short of a double mastectomy, I was stuck this way, in fact I’d become reconciled to spending the rest of my life as a woman. Would it even be possible to change back? And did I really want to give up my relationship with Jacques?

If Tracy’s first email threw me, her second was like a kick in the head:

It’s me again, back in Chicago, just wanted to let you know that I went to Burberry’s before I left for the airport, I asked them to show me that outfit you had on, they are still talking about the rich American girl who bought out the store! Missing you, Tracy

Damn her! My hands were shaking as I scrolled up to my inbox to see what time her message was sent. Yesterday, at 6:41 pm Chicago time...the middle of the night in London. Assuming the FBI was already on it, they’d have alerted Scotland Yard by now to question the staff at Burberry’s about the mysterious brunette who went on a shopping spree. From there, it wouldn’t take long for them to uncover my French credit card in the name of Madison Monroe, which would lead them directly to me here, in Paris, since I’d used that card, and my bogus passport, to take the train from London to Paris three days earlier.

How much time did I have? It was almost nine o’clock in Paris, only eight o’clock in London, so the shops wouldn’t be open for another few hours, and with any luck the authorities would start at the flagship Burberry’s in Haymarket before they fanned out to the other branches. First things first: using the telephone in the apartment, I placed a call to Jacques’ office. His receptionist put me through immediately.

“Jacques, I’m sorry for the way I behaved last night,” I said.

“Maddy, the fault is all mine. I should never have gone into such appalling detail before dinner.”

“Let’s just say your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”

“Touche. How are you feeling this morning.”

“Much better. Jacques, I’m sorry for the short notice, but could you please cancel my appointment with Dr. Villiers?”

“Completely understandable under the circumstances.”

“Darling, I have to leave Paris for a few days, and I didn’t want you to think I was running out on you. I’m going to leave some clothes in the apartment if that’s okay.”

“But of course, it is your home now, Cheri. Where are you going?”

“I’m really not sure…sorry to be so mysterious, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. I love you!”

“Je t’aime.”

I used some precious time searching the Internet for travel information before I hopped into the shower. No luxurious bubble bath this morning! I shaved my legs standing up, and didn’t bother to wash my hair. Just like a regular girl, I told myself. Soon I was dressed in a simple skirt and top, with my hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a smidge of eye liner and lippy. I quickly packed my suitcase, leaving out the incriminating clothes from London. All the while, I was searching my memory, trying to remember each time I’d used my new credit card and Madison Monroe’s passport. By the time I left the apartment, I’d worked out the beginnings of a plan.

First I hailed a taxi to the Gare de Lyon, where I used Madison Monroe’s credit card to buy a ticket in first class on the next TGV express to Marseilles. I also used my credit card at the station bookstore, where I purchase several travel guides to Tangier, Casablanca and Morocco. Also before we left, I spent some time at a travel agency next to the station, asking a lot of questions before booking passage on a ferry that same evening from Marseilles to Tangier. The last thing I did was to exchange all of my remaining travelers checks for cash.

The crack train took three hours to race from Paris to Marseilles. The scenery through the south of France was magnificent, but I was preoccupied with other things. After we arrived in the sweltering port city, I checked my suitcase with the concierge at a hotel near the station. Then I treated myself to an expensive lunch at the hotel restaurant, once again using my credit card, before I made my way to the wharf where the ferries departed for Tangier. Boarding would begin in about an hour, I was told. After I stopped at a souvenir shop to buy a beret and sunglasses, I found an Internet café near the terminal, where I sent Tracy this message:

Tracy, I was so happy to hear from you! Sorry it took so long to respond, I am on my way to Casablanca. How many times did we watch that movie together? Been thinking a lot about what you told me, now I need some time to decide where I go from here. All my love, Maddy

Au revoir, Terry, I said to myself on the way back to the wharf. She was nothing but trouble for me now…Terry may have showed me now to be a girl, but Jacques had shown me how to be a woman!

As soon as the ferry started boarding, I presented my passport and ticket to the purser and took a place at the rail. Before long the gangway was crowded with an onslaught of passengers, a surging mix of Europe and the Muslim world. Amidst the bustle and babble, nobody noticed a pretty girl sauntering against the tide of humanity and slipping away from the wharf. Nor did they see her adding the shredded remains of a credit card to the polluted waters of the harbor.

I returned to the hotel, collected my suitcase and tugged it back to the station. Wearing my new beret and sunglasses, I paid cash for a seat in second class on a train departing from Marseilles that evening. Eventually, we would wind up in Paris. It would be a long and miserable night for a millionairess!

I called Jacques just before we left. It sounded like he was in the middle of something…dinner with another woman perhaps? He told me to wait a moment before he asked, “Where are you?”

“Still in France. Jacques, I have a huge favor to ask. Could you loan me a car for a few days?”

“Madame Bochy is in Monte Carlo, you are welcome to use her Mercedes.”

“Great! Can I pick it up tomorrow morning?”

“Of course. I’ll bring it by your apartment, just ask the doorman for the keys. I must go, au revoir.” He hung up before I could say goodbye.

I brooded over his abrupt signoff as the train pulled out of the station. How like a woman I’d become! I tried to put him out of my mind, working through the details of my plan once again. Now that I had a car to cross the border, everything had fallen into place perfectly. My passport would be worthless to me now, flagged as a forgery at airports and border crossings, but it was perfectly safe for me to travel within France, and a woman in a Mercedes with Paris plates was unlikely to have to produce her passport while driving between countries in the EU.

The train was packed with vacationers returning home to Paris from the south of France. Fortunately, I’d been able to reserve a couchette, which meant that I’d be sharing a cramped compartment with five other passengers, both male and female, each of us spending the night on a foam slab with a blanket and pillow and zero privacy.

Needless to say, I was somewhat self-conscious when I came face-to-face with my fellow travelers. They were obviously more accustomed to life in second class than I was: to my dismay, I noticed that my bunk was on top, which meant I’d have to climb over two of them to turn in. The lower bunk on my side of the compartment was occupied by a young man who was already asleep, but the middle bunk was taken by an elderly Frenchman who couldn’t keep his eyes off me. I tried as best I could to be ladylike as I put my foot on his bed and climbed up to the top bunk in my skirt. What a hassle!

I closed my eyes and tried desperately to get some sleep, but it was impossible. Tossing and turning, I went over my escape plan once again. By now, the authorities would have identified Madison Monroe as the woman who spent thousands of pounds at Burberry’s, and a routine check with her credit card company would send them chasing after her in North Africa. However, it was her past movements that most concerned me: once again, I painstakingly went over the trail I’d left since I arrived in Europe. Madison Monroe had surfaced in Amsterdam in February, coinciding with the date and place where Ashley’s trail went cold. From there she traveled to Paris, and after a brief stay she flew on to Nice, where she rented a villa in Provence and rented a car for six months before flying to London. Then back to Paris again, on her way to Tangier….there was nothing to connect me with the apartment in Paris, and I blessed Jacques for convincing me to stay there. Yes, I’d thought of everything, and by this time tomorrow I would be in the clear. There was one little detail that I was unaware of, but it would become apparent soon enough…

Eventually I must have fallen asleep, because I was awakened by the sounds of my coachmates getting up and dressed. I’d taken off my skirt and top and folded them carefully under my pillow. There was nothing for it but to climb back down in my bra and panties to get myself dressed. The lecherous old man on the bunk below me enjoyed the spectacle of my jiggling breasts as I hopped down, pulled on my top and hurriedly stepped into my skirt. At least I didn’t have to worry about a bulge in my panties giving me away — the hormones had taken care of that. I found my shoes somehow and got into the long line for a lavatory. Being a woman was an incredible hassle, but not being a rich woman was a total bitch!

Eventually I pulled myself together and staggered into the crowded dining car, where I waited in another line for a table to share. There was no romantic rendezvous with a distinguished doctor this time, only two elderly women who glowered at me as I nibbled on my croissant and sipped my coffee. I sullenly ignored them as we rolled through the suburbs of Paris, only returning to my compartment to collect my suitcase when it was time to get off the train.

Fighting my way through the crowded station with my suitcase in tow, I’d never felt so grungy in my life. To add to my misery, it was raining in Paris, and it took me forever to hail a cab to my apartment. How I missed my Burberry’s trench coat! I took the precaution of having the taxi drop me off a few blocks away, so I was soaked to the skin by the time I dragged myself to my door. The doorman greeted me with pity. “Mademoiselle, I have some keys for you,” he said.

My heart soared at the news. He was kind enough to bring the car around for me, and soon I was crawling through the rush hour traffic in the warmth and luxury of a Mercedes. Things were looking up! Eventually I was able to cut against the traffic and start making good time on the motorway north, towards the Low Countries.

It was late morning when I pulled off the expressway and motored into Lille. I had two objectives: a beauty salon, and a passport photo shop. It took me a while to find a salon where someone spoke English — any mistake in translation could be a calamity. Finally a girl understood when I told her the look I wanted, and I surrendered myself to her care. After my sleepless night, I dozed off in her chair as she expertly shampooed, cut, died and dried my hair into a perky blonde wedge that made me look like Ashley once again. I was very relieved when I woke up — it made me look so cute! I tipped her generously, and she pointed me towards a photo shop on the way out.

After a quick bite to eat at a local café, I was back on the motorway, heading north once again. The Belgian border presented no obstacle, and I was able to make it over the border into The Netherlands before dark. I pulled off the expressway in Utrecht, where I settled on an obscure hotel — all I requested was a room with a bath! I soaked forever, washing away my memories of the dismal night on the train, then put on a dress, heels and stockings to dine alone in the stuffy restaurant. I didn’t mind getting dressed up: it felt wonderful to be a wealthy woman again, and I couldn’t help but notice how much more attention I got as a blonde.

I was up early the next morning, feeling thoroughly refreshed. My new hairdo was a breeze to style, and I thoroughly loved my new look. I wore the same dress to the breakfast room, turning the heads of the same men who had ogled me the night before, but none of them were as brash as Jacques. Soon I was back in his wife’s Mercedes for the short drive to Amsterdam. It was just after nine o’clock when I knocked on the door of my forger friend.

He greeted me with the same suspicion, and he didn’t know who I was until I asked him if he remembered Madison Monroe. He recognized me at once, and soon we were negotiating the terms of our next transaction. “I need a French passport this time.” I gave him my new photos, and a sheet of paper with a new name and address. Once again, I offered to pay a premium for same day service, and once again he didn’t disappoint me. I killed a few hours at the Van Gogh museum, treated myself to another Indonesian lunch, and collected my new passport in time to beat the traffic out of Amsterdam.

My spirits were soaring during the drive back to Paris. It was very late when I finally pulled up to my apartment building. I left the keys with the doorman, rode the lift up to my floor, and collapsed into bed as soon as I took off my dress and put on my nightgown.

* * *

I slept until almost noon. It was a crisp sunny day, and I felt safe laying out a Burberry’s skirt and cashmere sweater to wear for the day. I tossed a bra, panties, and tights on the bed and returned the remaining contents of my suitcase to my dresser drawers and closet,

After a long, luxurious bubble bath, I put a robe over my bra and panties and went to the kitchen to fix myself breakfast. I was just ladling some scrambled eggs onto my plate when the telephone rang. It was Jacques.

“Maddy, I’m so glad you are back. Madame Bochy is returning this evening, and I would have had to invent a clever excuse about her Mercedes.”

“Well, you’re in the clear. I guess this means you won’t be coming over for dinner tonight,” I said peevishly.

“I’m afraid not.” He seemed preoccupied, and I sensed that something was seriously wrong. “Maddy, I have a waiting room full of patients. I’ll call you tonight.”

Maybe he was pulling back because of my reluctance to take the next step? “Before you go, can you give me Dr. Villier’s number?” I asked impulsively. I jotted it down in my now girlish handwriting, and after a moment’s hesitation, I called the number. The surgeon would know me as Maddy Monroe, so I used that name when I called his office. I was in luck: he’d just had a cancellation, if I could come to his office immediately, he could squeeze me in.

There wasn’t time to think about the enormity of what I was doing. Still dressed in my Burberry’s ensemble, I went downstairs and the doorman hailed me a taxi to Dr. Villier’s office. When I presented myself to the receptionist, I was asked for my French national insurance card. I explained in broken French that I would be paying in cash and that I’d been referred by Dr. Bochy, which did the trick.

After I was ushered into an examination room, a nurse instructed me to strip down to my bra and panties, and she returned a few minutes later to take a blood and urine sample. After she left, I sat awkwardly on an examination table for a long time until a kindly looking man with gray hair and stooped shoulders entered the room. He introduced himself as Dr. Villiers, and his physical examination was quite complete. He lingered over my breasts before he poked and prodded my pitiful privates. He read my chart carefully before clearing his voice. “Your health is excellent,” he began, “although your hormone levels show an elevated level of testosterone in your blood, which is perfectly normal at this stage. Even though your testicles have atrophied considerably, they are still impeding your development into a woman.”

“Could I ever go back to being a man?”

“Highly doubtful,” he said dismissively. “Chemically speaking, your body is much like that of my female patients who wish to change their sex. If Dr. Bochy were to put you an aggressive program of testosterone therapy, you might regain some of the secondary sex characteristics of a man, and of course we could always remove your breasts.” I suppose I wasn’t surprised, but each word was like a nail in the coffin of Matt McCoy. “Is that what you want?” Dr. Villiers asked impatiently.

“No,” I heard myself say.

“It’s too soon for us to perform sexual reassignment surgery. As Dr. Bcchy has doubtless explained, there is a mandatory waiting period. However, if you wish, I can make sure that your testicles stop interfering with your continued development into a woman.”

“How would you do that?”

“By removing them. There is a routine out-patient procedure called a bilateral orchidectomy, which I can perform here in my office.”

My head was spinning. Once my balls were gone, there would be no turning back…but according to the doctor, I was too far gone already. Maybe if I took the plunge, I could hold onto Jacques. “How soon can you do it?”

“We can do it today,” Dr. Villiers said.

The rest of that day is a blur. I remember a nurse prepping me, and the doctor administering a local anesthesia. After I was numb, he made a single incision in my scrotum and pushed my shrunken balls through the opening. When I heard two distinct snips, Matt McCoy’s manhood was medical waste. Tears were running down my cheeks as Dr. Villiers stitched me up. When it was over, I looked down with dread, but all I remember seeing was my empty sac with a bandage on it. Other than a dull ache from where my balls used to be, there was no pain, only a profound sense of loss and despair. Somehow I managed to dress myself, and climb into a waiting taxi. I went to bed as soon as I got back to the apartment, and cried myself to sleep.

I was feeling almost normal the next morning, a little stiff and sore but there was no pain to speak of. I was famished after skipping dinner, my emotions were a mess, and I didn’t seem to have any energy. It was an effort just to sit down at the computer and boot it up. I was about to get on the Internet to do some research on the after-effects of castration when the telephone rang. It was Jacques.

“Maddy, how are you? I spoke to Dr. Villiers this morning, and he told me what he’d done. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess.” Maybe it was my highly emotional state, but I could tell that there was still something wrong. What had I done?

“Maddy, I need to see you, today. It’s rather important.” My heart sank — how could he dump me after what I’d just been through? Reluctantly, I agreed to meet him at Le Relais at noon, and spent the rest of the morning moping around the apartment. When I finally got myself dressed, my panties fit a little better, although I was still stiff and sore, and it was an effort to bend over to ease up my stockings. What had I done?

After I was finished dressing, I took a long look at myself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. From my blonde head to my silky toes, I was a beautiful woman. All for nothing! With a sigh, I stepped into my heels, wrapped a gold chain around my waspish waist, and went off to face my fate.

As always, Jacques was waiting for me in the same romantic booth. He did a double take when he saw my hair. “Stunning!” he exclaimed. “It reminds me of the magical night when we met.”

That didn’t sound like someone who was about to dump me. Still, my heart was beating hard beneath my breasts, and I waited cautiously for him to open up to me.

“You should have called me before you went into surgery,” he said. “I would have been there for you.”

“You sounded very busy.”

He sensed my discomfort, and went straight to the point. “Last night when you called, I was in the middle of a very awkward conversation. Two gentlemen whom I believe you Americans refer to as ‘the feds’ came to my home, asking some very direct questions. About you.”

I felt sick to my stomach. God, please don’t let me throw up in front of Jacques again! He motioned to the waiter for a glass of water, and waited until I gulped it down before continuing. “First, let me ask you a direct question: that second prescription that I gave you in Monte Carlo last week…did you ever fill it?”

“No. After our night together in the Plaza Athenee, I flushed it down the toilet.”

“Thank God!” he sighed with relief.

“Why is that so important?”

“Because of what I told the agents last night. They’d come to ask me about a prescription I wrote for a…person using the name Madison Monroe back in February.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That I write hundreds of prescriptions every month, and I have no recollection of anyone using that name. They showed me a crude sketch, obviously drawn by a police artist, that was actually quite a charming likeness of you, although as a brunette with long hair. Still, I was of no help to them, and of course there are no records of a patient by that name in my files.”

“Why did you ask me about the new prescription?”

“Isn’t it obvious? They were able to trace you back to me from the prescription I wrote for you in February. By lying to them, I set myself up for perjury if they could show that I wrote another prescription to the same person a few days ago.”

“Jacques, I owe you an explanation….” He tried to cut me off, but I wouldn’t let him. My words tumbling together, I told him everything about myself. He seemed intrigued by my account of my unwanted transformation, and if my halting description of Norman Wolf’s murder bothered him, he didn’t show it. When I told him about my escape to Amsterdam, and my subsequent efforts to cover my tracks, he was genuinely impressed.

“You fascinate me,” he said when I was finished. “What is your new name?”

“Madeline Moreau,” I said shyly.

“Enchanteurs! It all reminds me of the story of the Chevalier D’Eon, a French nobleman who disguised himself as a woman to spy for the king. Eventually, his treachery was unmasked, and he was compelled to spend the rest of his life as a woman.”

“I didn’t do this for king and country, Jacques. I did it for you.” After the emotional roller coaster I’d just been on, it wasn’t surprising when I totally lost it, bawling like a baby while he held me in his arms.

“Really, Madeline,” Jacques said as he dabbed my tears once again, “I’m going to have to stop taking you to Le Relais before the staff has me arrested for abusing a woman.”

“Nothing doing, Monsieur,” I said through my tears. “What can I do to save your reputation? How about a blow job under the table?” At that moment I might have done it, I was so in love with this wonderful man who had risked everything to save me.

“I’m afraid that would be a blow to both of our reputations,” he laughed. We bantered back and forth like two lovesick teenagers, sharing a bottle of wine and each others’ entrees, both of us wanting the moment to last forever. Finally, with a glance at his watch, he told me it was past time for him to return to his office.

“Madeline,” he said seriously while we waited for the check, “it would probably be wise for us to lie low for the next few weeks. I’m not sure those fellows from the FBI bought my story, and I could never live with myself if I helped them find you.”

I knew he was right, but my heart ached at the prospect. Now that my manhood was gone forever, I was ready to embrace my life as a woman, as his woman. “I understand, Jacques. Do you think I should leave Paris?”

“That would probably be a good idea. Depending on how thorough these people are, if they trace my calls it could lead them to the apartment.” I nodded in agreement, already thinking ahead to my next moves.

“Jacques, when I saw Dr. Villiers, the name I gave him was Madison Monroe. Do you think we can trust him not to talk to the police?”

“How did you pay him?”

“Cash, under the table.”

“Then you can trust him to keep quiet. He’d have problems of his own if the National Health System knew he was working off the books. Nevertheless, I’ll have a word with him to make sure.”

“While you’re at it, could you ask him something else?” He blinked when I told him what I wanted. “I have my reasons,” I assured him.

“It’s somewhat bizarre, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Jacques hailed a taxi, and he insisted on dropping me off at the apartment before returning to his office. We rode in silence, each of us preoccupied with our separate thoughts. Jacques may have been brooding over my macabre request, or the possible implications of our relationship on his medical license. I was primarily concerned with where I would be spending the night! When the taxi pulled over in front of the apartment, I put on a brave front. “Thanks for lunch! Don’t call me on my cell phone again, okay? If the police are onto you, they’ll have the record of all my calls. I’m going to have to get a new phone, when I do I’ll let you know my new number.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I can’t live like this, Jacques. I need to put my old life behind me, once and for all.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I can take care of myself, I’m a big girl.” I kissed him hard on the lips and slipped away before I lost it. As soon as his taxi was out of sight, I brushed past the doorman and raced for the stairs. I took them two at a time, not an easy thing in a skirt and heels, determined to make it back to the apartment before I broke down.

The exertion of racing up the stairs had a calming effect, and by the time I got to the apartment, I had almost composed myself. Think, Maddy! When was the last time I used my cell phone? Wasn’t it the night I left Marseilles, when I’d made my abbreviated call to Jacques from the train? Madison Monroe had disappeared from the face of the earth that night…now all I had to do was make sure her disappearance was permanent.

Once again, I sat down at the computer and watched my manicured fingers flit over the keyboard, searching the Internet for another escape route. Only this time, I was determined to travel in the style to which I’d become accustomed: no more couchettes for this girl! Soon I had come up with the outlines of a plan, and the details fell into place with surprising ease. Once I was sure where I was going, I packed my trusty Vuitton suitcase like a seasoned female traveler, put my new passport as well as my old one and a few other items in my purse, and called down to the doorman for a taxi to the Gare d’Austerlitz.

Just before I went out the door, the doorman called to inform me that a messenger had arrived with a package for me. I asked him to hold it for me downstairs. When I went to the lobby, he handed me a brown paper envelope about the size of a teacup. I tucked it into an outside pocket of my suitcase and got into my waiting taxi.

I asked the driver to stop and wait for me at a large electronics store a few blocks away from the station. There I purchased another throwaway cell phone, with a Paris prefix this time. I’d already crushed my old cell phone under a stiletto heel before I left the apartment. I also splurged on the latest, thinnest notebook computer with wireless Internet access.

When I got back into my taxi, I called Jacques’ mobile number to try out my new phone. I got his voice mail and left this message: “Bonjour Jacques, je vous manque! Appelez-vous quand vous pouvez. Je t’aime, Madeline.” Despite six months of self-instruction in Provence, my Berlitz French was still pitiful, but hopefully any prying ears would mistake Madeline for just the latest of Jacques’ many mistresses.

I asked the driver to make one more stop before he took me to the station: a branch office of Banque BNP Paribas, where I opened a new checking account in the name of Madeline Moreau. The account came with a credit card, which was essential, since my cash reserves were almost gone.

I had enough euros left to tip the driver generously when he dropped me off at the Gare d’Austerlitz. With my purse over one shoulder, and my new computer bag over the other, I tugged my suitcase into the colossal concourse, following the signs to the ticket office for the Elipsos Trenhotel. Using my new credit card, I reserved a Grand Class sleeping compartment on the Joan Miro to Barcelona, which was leaving in a few hours. Dinner was included with my fare, so although I was getting hungry, I killed some time browsing in the station bookstore, where I purchased a Michelin guide to Barcelona and a spent a long time studying a nautical chart of the western Mediterranean Sea.

I was so preoccupied that I almost missed my train! Fortunately, there were no check-in procedures before departure, as ticket control and passport checks were taken care of on boarding the train. There seemed to be an attendant for every passenger, and I was ushered with elaborate courtesy into my compartment, which in addition to a bed with crisp linens included a toilet, sink and shower. I was given a menu for the four course dinner which would be served by Wagon Lits in the dining car, and reserved a table for one at 10:00.

It was very sad to watch the lights of Paris fade away as my train streaked south towards Spain. I missed Jacques terribly, and I wondered if I would ever see our little love nest again? One way or another, I was determined to reclaim my destiny. I turned on a reading light, kicked off my heels and sat down at the little folding table by the picture window in my compartment. Then I reached into my purse for some stationery and envelopes that I’d taken from the Plaza Athenee, and carefully composed this letter, using a ballpoint pen with indelible ink:

Dearest Tracy,

I don’t know where to begin. Since our night together in London I’ve thought a lot about what I’ve done. My life is so screwed up! I am a man, living as a woman, who can never come home. You asked me how can I live with myself? The answer is, I can’t. I’m sorry for any hurt I caused you. Love,

Matt

I sealed the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Tracy in Rosemont, put a French postage stamp on it, and put it back in my purse. I knew if I sent the letter, it would lay a heavy guilt trip on Tracy, but that was not my intention. Just then my cell phone rang. “Allo?”

“Madeline?” It was Jacques.

“Bonsoir, mon amour.”

He picked up my cue and continued the conversation in French, asking me where I was. I told him I was in the south of France, technically true, and assured him that I missed him and wanted him in my bed again soon. Jacques played along perfectly, and rang off with a promise to call me tomorrow.

A glance at my diamond watch told me that I was late for dinner. I stepped back into my heels, grabbed my purse and made my way down the gently swaying corridor to the dining car. It was quite elegant, half-filled with well-dressed diners seated at intimate tables set with linen, crystal and silver. I was shown by a uniformed attendant to a table already occupied by a smartly dressed woman of about my age.

I took the opposing chair and fumbled in my purse for a cigarette. She put down her Financial Times and lit one of her own. After we shared guilty smiles, she introduced herself as Gabrielle. Although I’d studied Spanish in high school and college, her Catalonian dialect was incomprehensible to me, and her French was as bad as mine, so we settled on English as a default language. I had to remind myself to dumb it down and speak with a French accent!

“My name is Madeline,” I told her. Although I was supremely confident in my passing ability by now, it occurred to me that this would be my first sustained conversation with a woman other than Tracy. How did girls talk to each other anyhow?

“I like your sweater,” Gabrielle said. “So feminine. Did you get it in Paris?”

“No, in London, at Burberry’s.”

“Is that where you got your skirt?”

“Uh huh.”

“Very nice.”

“Thanks.” I glanced down and saw her foot sticking out from under the tablecloth. A Gucci pump was dangling from her stockinged toes. “Umm, those are cute shoes,” I said lamely.

“I hate them! Sheer torture if I walk more than a few meters,” she confided. Our conversation continued along those momentous lines while we waited for a waiter to take our orders. Gabrielle was drinking Campari and bitter lemon, which looked light and refreshing, so I ordered one too. Our chatter continued over entrees, salads and much wine. It turned out that Gabrielle was a newly-licensed architect returning from an internship in Paris. I deflected her questions about my livelihood, and soon the conversation turned to the inevitable. “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked me.

“Yes, his name is Jacques,” I said with reflexive pride.

“What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor in Paris.”

“Excellent. Is he...older?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in love?”

“Yes, except…he’s married.” I guess it was the wine talking.

“Married men are much better. I’m so sick of the boys I’m seeing. All they want is to fuck, get pissed and watch football!”

Don’t knock it, I thought sadly. Not so long ago, I would have been trying to figure out how to get into your pants. Now I’m sitting here in a skirt, talking to you about shoes and boyfriends….

We lingered over dessert and coffee. “How long are you staying in Barcelona?” Gabrielle asked.

“I’m not sure. Do you live there?”

“All my life. Where are you staying?”

“I thought I’d try the Hotel Arts. Is it nice?”

“Very! It’s not too far from everything and right on the beach. Would you like to get together one night?”

In my past life, I would have pounced on it. Now, I could only smile and tell her that might be fun. Maybe we could go clubbing and meet some cute guys, she said. On that distressing note, I stubbed out my last cigarette and wished her a good night.

It was past midnight by the time I returned to my posh compartment. I was feeling very sorry for myself as I peeled off my stockings and stepped out of my skirt. How my life had changed! I’d just spent two hours with a hot chick, but now that I was a eunuch, I’d felt nothing downstairs. All I could think of as I undressed myself was how much I missed being a man, and how like a woman I’d become.

The feeling of my satin nightgown against my smooth skin was some consolation. What are you complaining about? You’re free, you’re rich, and you’re going to have sex again someday, only as a beautiful woman. I pulled up the covers, rested my head on the soft pillow, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke to the first rays of sunlight peeking under the window shade. The Spanish countryside was baked to a golden brown, under a bright blue sky. I had a lot to do today, so I showered quickly, put on a little makeup, and selected my favorite sundress to wear with some comfortable espadrilles. Gabrielle was sitting at the same table in the dining car, and we passed the next few hours sharing girl talk over espressos and croissants. At one point I asked her to recommend the best place in Barcelona to find a cute swimsuit, and tried to stay with her as she critiqued the latest styles. We exchanged phone numbers and air kisses when it was time to return to our compartments to collect our things.

It was a short taxi ride to the Hotel Arts. As Gabrielle had assured me, it was well-located on an esplanade which connected the beach to a modern shopping and entertainment district along the Port Olimpic marina. I inspected and rejected two rooms before I settled on what I was looking for: a suite with a small lanai, on an upper floor, fronting directly on Barceloneta Beach.

As soon as I’d unpacked my things, I went out in search of a hardware store, where I purchased two ten liter buckets with snap-on lids. These I placed on the lanai. The rest of the morning I spent shopping for an oversize beach bag, several large bottles of spring water, and after I dropped these off in my room, my new swim suit. The shop recommended by Gabrielle was on Las Ramblas, which was a short taxi ride from my hotel. The bustling thoroughfare was full of life, lined with smart stores and restaurants. I lost myself in the crowd, savoring my freedom and the sheer enjoyment of being a pretty girl in a sundress on a sunny day.

Eventually I came to the beachwear boutique, where for the first time since my transformation, I saw how my body looked in a woman’s swimsuit. Not bad! Some of them made me look fat, and others accentuated various flaws, but eventually I found two modest one piece suits which hugged and highlighted all the right places, and a skimpy bikini that made me look downright hot. I bought several cover-ups and some sandals to go with them, along with a pair of oversize sunglasses and some girly ball caps which matched my swim suits. My final acquisition was a supply of tanning oils with minimal sunscreen.

The shops were just closing for the afternoon siesta as I made my way back to the Hotel Arts. It was warm and sunny, a typical late summer’s day on the Costa Brava, so I changed into one of my modest swim suits, filled my beach bag with water bottles and tanning oil, and headed for the beach. I tipped a beach attendant after he set me up with a chair and towels, and took my time applying tanning oil to my soft, smooth arms and legs. I pulled down the straps on my swimsuit and covered my back and shoulders as best I could.

After I’d strapped myself back up, I went straight to work. First I opened my water bottles and poured their contents completely into the golden sand. Then I carried them into the surf, wading out up to my waist before I bent over and filled each of them with Mediterranean sea water. After I screwed the tops back on the bottles, I put them in my beach bag and returned to my hotel room, where I poured them into one of the buckets on the lanai. By my mental calculation, it would take another ten trips or so to completely fill both buckets, so I returned to the beach and continued with my one-woman bucket brigade throughout the afternoon. Fortunately, the beach was crowded, and if anybody noticed the strange woman’s comings and goings, they paid her no mind. By five o’clock, my shoulders aching and my back burned to a crisp, I’d filled both buckets almost to the brim.

After that, I returned to my room, where I selected a small purse — the type a woman tucks under her arm when she’s wearing a summer dress — and filled it with a compact, lipstick, some miscellaneous female junk, the letter which I’d composed to Tracy on the train, my boarding pass and ticket for the Tangier ferry, and Madison Monroe’s passport. Then I dropped it into one of the buckets full of sea water and snapped the lid tightly shut.

My next task was more difficult. The package which had been delivered to my doorman the day before was still in an outside pocket of my suitcase. Carefully, I removed it from the brown paper envelope and removed the bubble wrapping which surrounded a clear plastic case. There they were, looking like two passed-over prunes. A little tear ran down my cheek as I removed them from the case and wrapped them in my cotton panties, a pathetic burial shroud for Matt McCoy’s manhood. I wadded them tightly into the panties and sank them to the bottom of the other bucket.

After a quick shower to rinse the sand off my exhausted body, I flung myself down on the bed like a rag doll. My sordid tasks had killed my appetite, and I was lying there disconsolately, contemplating my tan lines — I’d always found them so sexy on a woman — when my cell phone rang. “Allo?”

“Bonsoir, Cheri.” It was Jacques. We spoke in French, using simple words and phrases, the language of lovers. I told him how much I missed him, and he asked me how I’d spent my day. When I told him about my new swim suits, he demanded a detailed description. I complained about my tan lines, which delighted him, and before I knew it, I was playing with myself while he whispered eroticisms into my ear. My neutered penis was unresponsive at first, but to my surprise I felt myself becoming aroused when I started to play with my breasts, which Jacques referred to lovingly as my grand tetons…then he told me to kiss my finger for him, and insert it into my derriere, which I did, arching my back in delight while my other hand continued to stroke my hardening nipples, until my whole body shivered as I succumbed to wave after wave of exquisite pleasure, my little penis twitching and dribbling like a forgotten bystander.

I made Jacques promise to call me again at the same time tomorrow, and every night after that until I returned to Paris.

* * *

The next day, what was to become my routine for the next two weeks began with a room service breakfast at the table on my lanai. I requested that housekeeping make up my room first thing, and I smoked cigarettes and drank espresso on the lanai until the chambermaid had come and gone. Then I locked the lanai door and put on one of my conservative swimsuits for a day on the beach. The weather was predictably hot and sunny, and I took up my position near a lifeguard stand and began to observe the beach scene. It had a rhythm of its own, and gradually I became familiar with the characters and their routines. I noted when the scavengers came around to look for lost items, and which lifeguards were the most conscientious. Every day, my tan got deeper and deeper, and by the end of the first week I was as brown as a bean.

The only break in my routine was when I had lunch one day at an outdoor café on Las Ramblas with Gabrielle. She’d called to arrange a night on the town, but I’d declined, suggesting a ladies lunch instead. That was fine with her, and she told me to meet her at a little bistro the following day. I wore my chicest summer dress from Saint Tropez, and we spent a delightful afternoon sipping Sangria and sharing pizza topped with brie and walnuts. We were hit on several times, which annoyed Gabrielle as much as it amused me. There was a whole new world waiting for me, a world of girlfriends who shared a bond unlike anything experienced by guys, and a world of guys who were after the one thing that I didn’t yet possess…

When we were finished our lunch, I asked her if she could teach me how to say a few words in Catalonian Spanish, the dialect of Barcelona. “What exactly is it you want to say?” she asked.

“Look at what I found in the water. It’s a public disgrace! Shame on you!”

“Why would you want to say those things?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s just a little joke I’m playing on a boy. Can you tell me how to say it?” She shrugged and taught me the words. I made her repeat them several times, writing it all down word for word and practicing my pronunciation until she assured me that I had it right.

On my way back to the Hotel Arts, I stopped at a shop on Las Ramblas to purchase a good pair of binoculars. Then it was back to the beach to continue my strange routine. Every night, after phone sex with Jacques and a room service dinner, I used my notebook computer to search the Internet for information about the corrosive effects of seawater. I never came up with anything conclusive as to cause and effect, so I would just have to go with my gut. Finally one morning, I decided that it was time.

After breakfast at my normal hour, I opened one of the buckets on the lanai and carefully fished out the remains of my purse, which looked more like a glob of muck than an expensive ladies’ handbag. Perfect. I dropped it into a plastic hotel laundry bag, which in turn I put into my beach bag. After I’d settled myself on the beach at my usual place, I waited until a few minutes before the lifeguards got on duty before I put my beach bag on my shoulder and started to take a casual stroll along the beach. When I was right in front of the lifeguard stand, I quickly removed the laundry bag and deposited my water-logged purse on the shore, so that the gentle waves were just lapping it. I continued to saunter along the beach for a few minutes before I circled back behind the lifeguard stand and returned to my chair to see what happened.

As always, the conscientious lifeguard who had the first shift arrived promptly at ten. He made a quick survey of the beach in front of his station, and when he spotted something unusual in the sand, he hopped down and picked it up. I had my binoculars with me, and I watched surreptitiously as he peered inside my purse and started to extract something. Then he stopped and returned to his station, where he picked up the telephone and said something down the line.

It seemed to take forever before a jeep with police officers pulled up to the stand. I watched them put my purse into a large plastic bag and drive off. Then I rolled over onto my tummy, eased off my shoulder straps, and concentrated on my tan.

My routine changed the next morning. Instead of going to the beach after breakfast on the lanai, I remained there with a stack of local newspapers, trying to decipher the Catalonian print as best I could. I was just finishing the last of them when I observed a commotion on the beach. Picking up my binoculars, I observed two familiar-looking figures in suits and ties walking Nixon-like on the beach. Sure enough, it was the same two FBI agents who had interrogated me in Tracy’s apartment, a lifetime ago. I watched in fascination as they talked to the lifeguard who had found my purse, writing in their notepads as he pointed to where he’d found it. They left soon afterwards, but about an hour later a low-flying helicopter began to search the waterfront, making lazy circles farther and farther out into the Mediterranean until eventually it disappeared.

It was time for my second act. Quickly I changed into my bikini, noting with smug satisfaction that it barely contained my breasts. God, I looked hotter than hell! Of course that was the whole idea…I tucked my blonde hair into a hot pink ball cap, put on my oversize sunglasses, and returned to the lanai to fetch my soggy panties. I rinsed them out in the seawater, making sure the sad remains of my manhood were no longer recognizable, before I tucked them into my bikini bottom and returned to the beach.

I hung back until I made sure that the FBI agents were nowhere to be seen. Then I sauntered into the sea, gradually splashing my body until I was in up to my breasts. A glance up at the lifeguard on duty confirmed that the hot chick in the bikini was commanding his complete attention. I turned my ass towards him, pulled the panties out of the front of my suit, and started to squeal. “Ai…yi…yi…!” I shrieked over and over. The guard jumped down from his chair and sprinted towards me through the water, asking what was wrong.

I pointed at the bloodstained panties floating in the water and repeated the lines that Gabrielle had taught me in Catalonian: “Look at what I found in the water. It’s a public disgrace! Shame on you!” I waited to make sure he picked them up before I turned away and swam out to sea.

* * *

Once again, I retreated to my lanai to watch the show. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Mutt and Jeff returned to the beach in their suits to interrogate the lifeguard. No doubt they asked him a lot of questions about the woman who’d discovered my panties, but having been a guy once myself, I was confident that his description would begin and end with my tits.

I returned to Paris the next day, although I flew Air France this time. I was desperate to see Jacques again, and I knew I had done all that I could do in Barcelona. When he picked me up at the airport, Jacques was blown away by my tan, and after two weeks with Madame Bochy I could tell that he was hot and horny. Although neither of us had eaten, we went straight to the apartment, where I performed my first ever blowjob. It wasn’t as bad as I expected. I almost enjoyed the sensation of stroking a robust cock again, even if it wasn’t mine…when it was time to take him into my mouth, I had an incredible feeling of power over him, and when he was done, he told me that he loved me. I zipped him up, freshened my lipstick, and insisted that he prove it by taking me to the most expensive restaurant in Paris.

For the next few days, I searched the Internet and newspapers for any developments in the manhunt for Matt McCoy. Finally, after three days, the story broke in the Chicago Tribune:

CROSSDRESSING FUGITIVE COMMITS SUICIDE

CHICAGO — A joint task force of the FBI, Interpol and the Chicago Police Department announced today that Matt McCoy, the Chicago securities dealer who has been the subject of an international manhunt, is believed to have drowned at sea. McCoy, who allegedly swindled millions from elderly investors, then murdered his co-conspirator and fled to Europe disguised as a woman, was last seen in Marseilles, where he boarded a ferry to Tangier using the name Madison Monroe. The task force declined to release more details, although sources within the CPD confirm that DNA taken from a hairbrush in McCoy’s Chicago apartment provided a positive match with DNA found on a woman’s undergarment which washed ashore on the Mediterranean coast of Spain. According to the same sources, McCoy’s effects also included a purse containing a suicide note. Although badly deteriorated after several weeks under water, the note suggested that McCoy was despondent and had decided to take his life, presumably by jumping overboard somewhere off the coast of France. Although the manhunt for McCoy has been discontinued, an investigation continues against his former employer, and a fund has been established to help the elderly investors who lost their life savings.

Although I’d planned it down to the last detail, I couldn’t believe that it was finally over! I should have been over the moon, but for some reason I felt a tremendous letdown. Maybe part of it was knowing that my friends and family, and especially Tracy, would go to their graves thinking that I’d killed myself disguised as a woman. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was much more than that. I re-read the article, and did a little Internet research into the fund which had been set up to compensate Norman Wolf’s victims. They were the poorest of the poor, yet hard-working and conscientious enough to have tried to set something aside for their old age, and now they were facing utter ruin.

I phoned my Swiss banker and inquired into the status of my account. Interest continued to pile on top of my stolen millions, and my balance was up to $3,100,000 and change. I instructed my banker to wire the $100,000 into my new account at Banque BNP Paribas. That should be enough to pay for my sex change operation, and to keep me in skirts and dresses when I was back in my heels. Before I allowed myself too much time to think about it, I told him to wire the rest as a unanimous contribution to the fund set up in Chicago. After all, it was their money…

When I hung up the phone, there were no regrets. I’d paid my price to society, and I had a lifetime as a beautiful woman to look forward to. If Jacques ever tired of me, I’d have to fall back on my wits and wiles as a woman. After all that I’d been through, I wasn’t all that worried about my future.

---

By the author of The Jessica Project.

A Week as a Woman
© 2017 by Nom de Plume

Sometimes magical, sometimes miserable, a real-life story of my week as a woman

My life is such these days that my time as a woman is restricted to business trips to a large city in a western state, where long hot summers and gray rainy winters are offset by endless autumns and lovely springs. There I maintain a small pied-a-terre with an apartment upstairs, and a downstairs office with its own access to the street. My apartment is in the heart of the city, a few blocks away from a thriving LGBT district with dozens of bustling bistros and nightspots. Business takes me there once or twice a month, and I always try to carve out a few days for my favorite pastime.
Hidden away in a closet under the staircase in the downstairs office, behind piled-up boxes and posters, is a complete woman’s wardrobe – everything from shoes and purses to lady’s golf clubs and a Maria Sharapova tennis racquet, painstakingly compiled over the years. It’s an ensemble for all seasons: summers in sundresses when I’m not lazing by the pool in my two-piece skirtini, falls in knee sox and cute skirts, and flowery dresses in the spring. Winter is – or used to be – my least favorite season, and often (like lots of real women) I won’t even bother to shave, hiding my body hair under long sweaters and tights.
A few weeks ago, a business crisis compelled me to spend a whole week in my hideaway, a week during which I lived 24/7 as a woman. I was lucky to get there: an ice storm was closing in, and I caught the last flight out on Saturday morning before the airport was closed for most of the weekend! When I got to my apartment that afternoon, just before spending a miserable hour with my mangroomer, I switched on the cellphone that I only use when I’m a woman, to find this text from a dear friend:
Can u join us 4 pizza at 6 at Rosettis?
I almost never get to be a girl over the weekend, and the message could have come in weeks ago, but I sent this reply anyway:
2nite?
After lugging several suitcases full of women’s clothing and accessories up from the downstairs closet, and hanging up a selection of skirts, dresses and coats (the forecast was for miserable weather all week) I was just stripping off my male clothing when my cellphone chirped:
Yes, r u here?
I couldn’t believe my good fortune! A girls’ night out! I quickly tapped out a request for directions, confirmed that I’d be there, and went to work on my body hair (ugh) with a song in my heart – tonight I’d be all dressed up, with somewhere to go!

* * *
I will spare the reader a detailed description of the lengths I had to go through to transform myself from man to woman – in the warmer months, when I keep myself shaved down for swimming, it’s a breeze, but the tedious task of removing several months’ growth of fur is not for the faint of heart. Anyway, when I finally emerged from the tub after a delightful bubble bath – my reward to myself for feminizing my body - I moisturized my now tender skin all over, applied my makeup, put on my wig (a collar length bob, which needed a good shampooing, but there was no time for that and besides, it was raining cats and dogs out there) and in no time I was ready to get dressed.
What to wear for a girls’ night out at a suburban pizza joint on a stormy Saturday night? I decided on a ruffled blouse under a black vest, a short skirt which was cute with opaque tights, and ankle boots which were still the rage.
I made sure that I had my fake female drivers’ license in my purse as well as my real, out-of-state license in case I had an accident (always a worry when I’m driving as a woman) before I put on my most expensive female possession, a Jones New York trench coat which has traveled around the world with me, and headed out into the storm. The drive was dreadful, and I forgot to turn on the headlights of my rental car until a nice guy pulled up beside me and blew his horn to get my attention, but eventually I got there, and parked in front of a cool Chicago style pizza restaurant in a suburban strip mall. I dashed in through the driving rain, and immediately spotted my posse: a large table in the center of the restaurant, where six or seven men dressed as women greeted me like a long-lost sister.
I took the remaining empty seat at the table, hung my sopping coat over the back of my chair, and let myself unwind for the first time that day. A few years ago, I might have recoiled at the prospect of being seen in the company of fellow crossdressers – my ego is such that I try to blend into the woodwork when I’m a woman, rather than draw attention to myself – but a good friend helped me get over that, and now I find the whole scene rather amusing. Here we were, obviously men dressed as women – several of the “girls” were well over six feet tall, and a few of them could have been retired NFL linebackers – surrounded by families and couples on dates, who paid absolutely no attention to us. Of course, it helped that we were in a progressive state: if we’d entered a pizza joint deep in the heart of Texas, we probably would have been laughed out of the restaurant, if not worse….
The impresario of our little gathering (the gal who had sent me the text) was seated at the other end of the table, and I found myself seated next to two total strangers. On my left was an androgynously dressed boy, quite good-looking, who in turn was seated next to a tgirl I’d met once before, at a Halloween gathering where she’d been dressed as an angel. She made a beautiful woman, probably the most attractive tgirl I’ve ever seen, but she was preoccupied with her boytoy, so I turned my attention to the lady on my right.
It’s always easy to start a conversation with someone you have something in common with, and I quickly learned that she’d been on hormones for years, which explained her lovely skin and soft, feminine face. She’d recently come out full time at work, which had presented the usual challenges. She hadn’t had any surgeries yet, although I think breast implants were in her immediate future. But what struck me most about her – and several of the other women seated around the table – was that she was enormously overweight. Just having a waistline made me feel downright petite by comparison, and I marveled when she ordered her pizza with extra-thick crust and asked for more blue cheese dressing to go on her salad!
The pizzas presented to the other gals were similarly loaded with extra cheeses and toppings. Why, I had to ask myself, would a guy endure all of the hassles and humiliations of transforming himself into a woman, and not want to watch her weight? If she lost a hundred pounds, she would make a beautiful woman. But who was I to judge? She seemed blissfully happy as a fat girl, and she was in good company as the other women around the table demolished their monstrous pizzas.
Anyway, our waitress was a total sweetheart, and she deftly served my dinky thin crust pizza and two glasses of Chardonnay. By the end of the evening, I’d loosened up, and I thoroughly enjoyed the food and the company. But I was facing a long drive back to my apartment in the unrelenting rain, so after hugs all around, I said my goodbyes and headed for home.

* * *

I slept in Sunday morning, in my pink flannel nightgown, and watched the morning news in bed before I got up to face the world as a woman. The rain had stopped, so after shaving my face, I threw on my leggings, sports bra, jogging skirt and jacket, pulled a visor over an old wig, laced up my sneakers and headed out the door for a long run, determined after last night to keep my girlish figure!
During my run, I checked the marquis in front of a nearby church and determined that there was an 11:30 am service. Going to church dressed as a woman is always a very spiritual experience for me – I don’t know why God made me this way, but I feel very close to him when I enter his house in my preferred gender. So after I got back to my apartment, and suffered through 200 crunches to finish off my workout, I took a nice bath, and dressed myself as a church lady. I’d washed my wig overnight, and I was feeling quite presentable in a knee-length skirt and sweater as I headed out the door after a light breakfast.
It was raining again, but with my trusty trench coat and a mini umbrella, I was able to make it to church with nothing more than wet legs, soaked through my stockings, which only reminded me that I was dressed as a woman. It’s hard to explain, but once I’ve transformed myself and spent a day or so en femme, I get so into my female persona that I can forget that I’m a man. The church was lovely, the other parishioners were very kind and accepting, and I just lost myself in the service. Time seems to move more slowly when I’m a woman – when I’m a guy I can’t wait for a church service to end, but that day I savored the sensation of sitting amongst the other conservatively dressed ladies, although I ducked out a bit early to avoid an awkward greeting from the minister….
How to spend a free Sunday afternoon as a woman? When I scheduled my trip, I’d alerted my boyfriend Bill – who lives a few hours away – that I was going to be in town, in case he could come up with an excuse to come see me. We’ve been dating steadily for over five years now (if seeing each other two or three times a year can be called steady) and I’m manic about the fact that he’s never seen me in the same outfit twice! Anyway Bill sent me an email that morning confirming that he was good for lunch on Wednesday, and I was bound and determined to find a new dress to wear for him. So after I swapped my soaking flats for some comfy Mary Janes, it was back in my rental car for a trip to the mall.
Have you ever fallen in love with a dress? I did that day, after I spotted it hanging all by itself at the end of a rack – it was a beautiful sweater dress by Elle in winter white, with black horizontal stripes offsetting a band of pink across the bodice, and a belt with a cute little bow. I just had to try it on! Into the fitting room, where I pulled off my skirt and top and tried to figure out how to put it on without mussing my hair. There was a little makeup stain on the collar, which must have explained why it was drastically marked down, but I’m an industrious girl and I knew how to get rid of that! I tugged it over my head, smoothed it around my legs and fastened the little belt tight. The moment of truth: so many times a dress which seems perfect just doesn’t drape right, but not this one! Looking back at me in the fitting room mirror was a pretty woman who liked what she saw.
Before I left the store, I scored a chunky necklace, also on sale, which would be perfect with my new dress. When I got home, I took care of that stain, and hung it up in my closet to await my date with Bill.

* * *
Monday morning dawned wet and windy, a powerful storm that showed no signs of letting up. Not a problem for me: today was to be the first of five straight days working almost nonstop in my downstairs office, trying to pull together a business transaction that was to tax me to the fullest. And every minute, from early in the morning till late at night, I would be dressed as a woman!
After pulling a robe over my nightgown and putting on my slippers, I’d sit down at my computer and send out a round of emails to all of the participants, including a difficult seller and a problematic partner, as well as the usual retinue of lawyers and consultants, outlining the things that needed to be accomplished. While waiting for them to wake up and respond, I’d treat myself to a hot bubble bath, and put on a different career girl outfit each day, usually a skirt suit, heels and stockings.
I’d fix myself a light breakfast, and after coffee and a cigarette on my balcony (which was sheltered from the almost constant downpours) I’d head back downstairs and try to keep our transaction from going off the rails. There were a number of seemingly insurmountable problems, compounded by the fact that the seller and our partner truly hated each other! Maybe it was because I was secretly serene in my female clothing, barking orders over the phone while I dangled a high heel off my stockinged foot, but I always managed to keep one step ahead of the endless crises that came up. I’d break to fix myself a light lunch, or duck out to a nearby frozen yogurt shop, then I’d be back at it throughout the day, before I finally took a break late in the afternoon to slip into something casual and do a little shopping.
Then, after more phone calls and emails, I’d take a long, hot bubble bath and change into a dress for dinner. Every night, I’d treat myself to a cocktail and a cigarette on my balcony before putting on an apron and whipping up something for dinner. Then it was back to my computer, where I’d pour over the mountain of documents that had come in during the day, before curling up in my nightgown and falling asleep to a late night television drama.

* * *

After two days of this, I was ready for a break – my date with Bill! The clouds parted on Wednesday, and I was able to go for another long run before I hammered out the morning’s emails in my jogging skirt and leggings. Then, after some tough telephone calls, I went back upstairs and tuned out my business problems. I was a girl with a lunch date at a romantic restaurant, with a handsome man, and nothing was going to stop me!
So I shaved myself closely all over, first with my mangroomer and then in a long, lovely bubble bath, before I moisturized my body and started in on my makeup once again. I took my time, adding a few little flourishes and tricks that make me look younger, before I carefully brushed my wig and slithered into some sexy lingerie, including a new pair of sinfully sheer nude pantyhose that felt delicious against my freshly shaved legs. After I stepped into a white slip with a lacy hem, it was time to put on my new dress. Carefully (remember that makeup stain some other girl had given it?) I pulled it over my head, tugged it down to my knees and fastened the belt. It was just as gorgeous as I remembered! After fastening my new necklace, I stepped into some classy patent leather heels, organized my purse, and waited for a text from Bill.

*

There he was, right on schedule! I put on a light cardigan which matched the stripes in my dress and headed for “our” restaurant, a charming Spanish bistro a block from my apartment. I got there before Bill, so I ducked into the ladies room to make sure that my hair and makeup were perfect. He was just striding into the restaurant when I emerged, and to my surprise he gave me a soft kiss on the lips before he asked the maître d to show us to our table. Bill was always the man in charge, and I fell in line behind him as we were shown to a corner table overlooking the street. I sat down demurely, smoothing my dress under me and crossing my legs with a swish of nylon.
Bill and I have known each other forever – we even went to the same university, although he was several years ahead of me – and we quickly fell into male/female conversation, chattering away about nothing in particular as we surveyed the menu and brought each other up-to-date on what was happening in our lives. He told me how much he liked my dress, which melted me a little bit, and by the time we’d finished our lunch with two glasses of wine, we both knew exactly what was next on the menu! He walked me back to my apartment, I gave him a little kiss while we rode up the elevator to my floor, and after we went inside I kicked off my heels and sat down expectantly on the sofa in my living room.
Bill sat down beside me, and we lost ourselves in a deep, passionate kiss. I’m afraid I was impatient to move the action to my bedroom, but before I got up he teased me about my slip. “Look at you, you’re wearing women’s underwear!” he said as he fondled its lacy hem.
“Um hmm…wait till you see my new nightie.” With that, I excused myself and went into the bathroom, where I tore off my dress and lingerie and slipped into a sexy little babydoll and panties that I’d been saving for the occasion. I even replaced my pantyhose with boy-friendly thigh high stockings before I presented myself to Bill with a little twirl. “Does the gentleman approve?”
Did he! Before long Bill was undressed, and we were romping under the covers. After I stroked him for a while, I put a condom on him, lubed it up and sat on him, face to face, gently rocking back and forth and up and down as he grimaced in ecstasy. Every so often, I’d lean forward and give him a kiss, which he returned in kind, until he asked me to roll over. After I did, he treated me to a wondrous succession of kisses starting in my back, moving down to my butt, then somehow he got under me and repeated the process as he suckled my panties, my tummy and my breasts. By then I was getting pretty hot, and when he removed my panties and took me in his mouth, I was on an ecstatic plateau, which seemed to last forever as he gently sucked on my hardening cock, teasing me with jolts of pure pleasure as he brought me closer and closer, until at last I cried out and came with rush. He milked me tenderly, relishing every drop, and when at last I was done, we lay there for a while before I told him, “Your turn.”
I knew what turned Bill on, and for the umpteenth time I did it to him once again, lubing him up and taking him into my hand, sort of a backhand position which he’d taught me years before, enabling him to slide up and down at his own pace and “fuck your hand” as he called it…we kissed each other while he gradually built up steam, until he started to moan and I knew he was close. When he came, the pleasure he felt was matched by my feelings of complete femininity, from being able to bring my man to a satisfying climax.
As always, after we cleaned up and he put on his clothes, I put my robe over my nightgown and served him coffee. We sat there, contented and happy, as we sipped our coffees and marveled over the incredible relationship that had grown between us. After he finally kissed me goodbye, I took another bubble bath, and reluctantly returned to reality. Well, not complete reality: I was still dressing and living as a woman!

* * *
The next day was the worst of all. Another dark, dreary day with sheets of rain, another succession of unexpected problems, and even the skirt and stockings I was wearing didn’t do any good. By late morning, after another impasse, I decided to change into pants and drive down to inspect the property we were trying to acquire, to see if it had flooded from all the rain. On the way back, I stopped at the market to stock up on food to cook for myself. I missed Bill, my deal was going down the drain, and I was feeling pretty miserable.
The low point came when our sellers made another ridiculous demand, which I knew – from years of experience – that they would drop if we told them no. I told our partner that we were playing a game of chicken, which freaked him out, but in the end he let me have my way. That evening, I told the sellers that they’d just killed the deal, and gave them the night to think about it.

* *
Friday morning, another rotten day, with our deadline fast approaching and our deal in limbo. Another career girl outfit, another breakfast, another day at my computer and on the phone in a skirt and stockings, trying desperately to hold it all together.
The big breakthrough finally came, as I knew it would, when the sellers finally folded an hour before the deadline! All we had to do was sign a harmless side letter signifying nothing, which I rammed down our partner’s throat, and we were done!
That night, I decided to reward myself with dinner at a nearby restaurant. And it was a good thing I did, because no sooner was I all dolled up than all the lights went out in my apartment! Fortunately, I was able to make it out the door in a sexy skirt and top.
It was so lovely, being shown to a table for one and treated like a lady at an elegant restaurant, until all the lights went out at the restaurant too! Fortunately, by then I’d been served my dinner (and a half carafe of wine) and the scene at the bar was getting quite rowdy as I put some cash on the table and made my way out the door and back to my apartment, where the lights were still out from a wicked windstorm.
It may seem trivial, but I was really facing my biggest crisis of the week: could I manage to put all of my female paraphernalia back where it belonged, remove my makeup and nail polish, and transform myself back into a guy in time for my flight first thing in the morning?
I won’t keep you in suspense: working slowly and methodically, and with the aid of some emergency lights that lit my office and apartment with a dim glow, I managed to remove all traces of my week as a woman, put everything back where it belonged, and get a few hours of sleep before the lights finally came back on at around 3:00 in the morning. A quick survey of my office and apartment confirmed that everything was back in its place, and I even found an email from my boss, praising me for the manful job I’d done that week. If he only knew!

Arizona ICE’d TGirl

 © 2010 by Nom de Plume

A very short, very sad story based on current events, as told in a letter to my friends:

Arizona SB 2010: Where reasonable suspicion exists that the person is an alien who is unlawfully present in the United States, a reasonable attempt shall be made, when practicable, to determine the immigration status of the person. Any person who is arrested shall have the person’s immigration status determined before the person is released… A person is presumed to not be an alien who is unlawfully present in the United States if the person provides to the law enforcement officer or agency any of the following: a valid Arizona driver license, a valid Arizona nonoperating identification license…a valid United States federal, state or local government issued identification.

Greetings from sunny Mexico!

To those who thought I was dead, kidnapped or lying in a hospital somewhere with amnesia, the good news is that I am very much alive. The bad news is that I have been deported to Mexico, or ICE’d as my fellow deportees put it. How did this happen to an American citizen on a business trip to Phoenix? Read on.

There is something about me that you should know: I have a little hobby. Well, more like a little fetish. Okay, call it an alternative lifestyle: I dig dressing up like a woman and going out dressed in women’s clothes…are you that surprised? Didn’t you begin to wonder when I started shaving my chest, legs, etc? Sure, I told you it was for swimming, or was it cycling? I’ve been living a lie for so long that I can’t remember what I’ve said sometimes, not that it matters anymore. It looks like I’ll be living down here as a senorita for the foreseeable future.

But I digress. The last time most of you saw me, I was getting ready to leave for a confab at the Arizona Biltmore. Unbeknownst to you, as always on such occasions I “packed for two”, one half of my suitcase for my guy stuff and the other jammed with skirts, dresses, heels, lingerie, makeup, bling, purses, accessories, and my two most prized possessions: a pair of lovely silicone breast forms, and a wig styled especially for me at a sympathetic salon. Getting all this into one suitcase and keeping under the airline’s weight limit was quite the challenge, but I’ve had a lot of practice over the years, living a double life…

Now you know why I volunteered for all those business trips whenever and wherever, living the high life as a woman on my fat expense account. Fancy restaurants, evenings at the theatre, shopping sprees, even the occasional tryst with discriminating men who find TGirls like me irresistible, thanks to the Internet…I know this will come as a complete shock to most of you who knew me as a womanizer, but there’s a lot to be said for swinging both ways. As George Carlin observed, “Being bi doubles your chances of getting laid before closing time.”

Back to Arizona. My conference in Phoenix allowed plenty of free time for me to slip away and play girl, and on that fateful day I intended to knock off one of the objectives on my bucket list: a pedicure. With temperatures over 100 degrees, nylons were out of the question, and I needed to do something about the gnarly toes peeking out from the strappy sandals I planned to wear with my sundresses.

Can you begin to imagine the excitement of crossing the gender line, and trespassing that forbidden boundary between male and female? I guess you could call me a real-life shape shifter. My pulse was racing that fateful afternoon as I prepared to morph from hard-charging businessman to foxy cougar, savoring the sensations as I went about my transformation. The Biltmore featured a fabulous array of bathroom amenities, and after filling the oversized whirlpool tub with effervescent bath salts, I luxuriated in the swirling suds as I lovingly shaved my legs. Then, after wrapping a plush, thirsty towel around my fragrant body, I treated myself to the Biltmore’s sumptuous moisturizer from head to trembling toe.

Sitting here now in my cheap motel room, in a peasant skirt and rough cotton tee, how I savor the memory of those last, lovely moments! The sheer delight of slipping into lacy lingerie, which felt so cool and silky against my tender skin! Then back to the bathroom in my bra and panties to apply my makeup. After years of trial and error, aided by plenty of professional makeovers, I was an expert in creating my female face, and soon the eyes looking back at me in the mirror were smoky under lush lashes, bringing a smile to my pretty-in-pink lips. I took my time with my wonderful wig, fussing with it until my perky bangs were just so, before watching the pretty woman in the mirror fasten a coral necklace around her elegant neck and clip on her matching earrings.

Then it was back to the closet to select my dress for the afternoon, a green and white sundress that I carefully slipped over my head before zipping it up in the back. All those sit-ups were worth it when I spun back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the trim waist and deeply tanned legs under the hem of my beautiful dress. The sight of my reflection, the sound and the feeling of my dress rustling around my knees, the taste of my lip gloss, and the scent of my cologne as I dabbed it behind my ears, all came together to bombard my senses and stoke my adrenaline. Not even the sight of my feet could dampen the incredible rush I was feeling as strapped on my white high-heeled sandals.

I perched on the edge of the bed and crossed my legs with a swish while I organized my matching white purse. It was then that I made my first fatal mistake: rather than transfer my Illinois drivers license into my women’s wallet, I left it behind, not wanting to face the embarrassment of presenting a male license while dressed as a woman. I hadn’t been stopped by a cop since I was a teenager, and besides, I’d drive carefully....

The Arizona heat hit me like a blast furnace when I emerged from a side exit of the hotel near the parking lot. Thank God I had the figure for a sundress! Compared to how I’d felt in my suit and tie a few hours earlier, my women’s clothes were so much more comfortable! Until I sat down on the black leather seat of my rental car, carelessly forgetting to tuck my dress under my thighs…ouch! I rolled down the windows and cranked on the air conditioner full blast, tuning the radio to Dr. Laura while I waited for the car to cool down to a habitable temperature.

Then it was off to the nail salon. The one I’d selected from the Yellow Pages was near Biltmore Fashion Park, so I could do a little shopping afterwards. Just as I was turning left onto 24th Street, the BlackBerry in my purse chirped that I had a message. One of the ways I was able to stay on top of my job while dressed as a woman was to keep in constant contact with the office thanks to my handheld PDA, so I instinctively reached into my purse and fumbled for it while I made the turn.

As much as I’d done this, it was still awkward for me to deal with the challenge of finding something in my purse, and it slipped out of my fingers and fell to the floor between the seats. Desperately searching for it, I veered out of my lane and almost sideswiped the car next to me. Somehow I was able to retrieve my BlackBerry, and I dropped it into the folds of my dress until I regained control of my car. Then I scrolled to the message from my boss, asking for some sales figures. Second tragic mistake: I started tapping out a response, unaware that texting while driving is strictly prohibited in Phoenix.

I almost jumped out of my panties when I heard the police siren behind me. “Pull over!” a bullhorn blared, and when I saw the black and white cruiser in my rear view mirror I nearly died of anxiety. Get a grip on yourself, girl! I eased my car over to the curb and rolled down my window while a burly police officer ambled towards my car. “Drivers license and registration,” he said brusquely when he got to my window.

Although my female persona is flawless to look at, I have a little problem with my voice. Consequently, whenever I’ve been called upon to speak in a pressure situation, my defense mechanism is to start speaking in a foreign language, which usually throws my questioners and buys me a pass. So without thinking, I smiled sweetly and said, “No habla English.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?” the cop asked me again. I shook my head politely. “Any form of identification?” Again, I shook my head. My fate was sealed.

“Well, well…I’ve been wondering when I’d get one of these. Didn’t figure on it being a pretty woman. Okay, out of the car, Miss.” And then, as if I hadn’t understood, “Vaminos!”

Not quite believing what was happening to me, I opened my door and stood awkwardly next to him beside my car. “Spread ‘em!” he commanded, and the next thing I knew I was spread-eagled against the blazing hot hood, feeling his hands pat me down over my dress. Before I knew what was happening, he pulled my hands behind my back and cuffed me! Then he frog-marched me back to his cruiser and tossed me roughly into the back seat. I thought about fessing up and telling him I was really just a harmless cross dresser, but then I worried that I’d be admitting that I’d lied to a law enforcement officer, so I kept my mouth shut, reasoning that my right to remain silent until I consulted a lawyer was my best defense.

The rest of that day is a blur: sitting for what seemed like forever in the back of the cruiser while my captor radioed for instructions, then the long drive to a destination I could only imagine…along the way it suddenly dawned on me that I’d left my purse in my rental car, leaving me with no money and no way to contact the outside world! When we finally arrived at Immigration and Customs Enforcement, I was hustled out of the cruiser and into a holding cell full of Chicanos. Most looked like hapless gardeners, day laborers and housekeepers who had run afoul of the law somehow, but there were a few evil-looking individuals: drug traffickers and smugglers? I curled into a little ball in the corner of the cell and tried to tell myself that this wasn’t really happening, until we were rousted and escorted into a dreadful, smelly van. I looked out the window in despair as we pulled onto the freeway headed south, toward Nogales.

* * *

So here I sit, in a crummy motel room with a bed, sink and a toilet down the hall, with only the clothes on my back. My pretty sundress was nearly torn off me by one of the bad-assed hombres during the drive to Mexico, and only the heroic intervention of a few of the day laborers saved me. Once we crossed the border, we were summarily released into a crowded plaza, full of street merchants selling blankets, Chiclets and cheap clothing. Wandering aimlessly in my torn dress, I was able to barter my inexpensive women’s wristwatch for the peasant skirt and top that I’ve been wearing since I got here. At least I was able to hock my necklace at the mercado for a razor and some makeup.

You may wonder why I don’t switch back to being a guy and sneak back across the border. The truth is, I’ve always longed to see what it would be like to live 24/7 as a woman, and although the circumstances aren’t what I imagined, this may be my only chance. The black market economy is alive and well on this side of the border too, and I’m cleaning toilets and making beds in return for my room. It turns out my motelier is one of those gentlemen who fancies TGirls, so in return for my favors I eat free at the motel’s taqueria. He’s started pressuring me to let him pay for a boob job, with the promise that I can move into his hacienda with him…

Doubtless the manager of the Arizona Biltmore assumes that the pervert occupying my room skipped the bill and fled, leaving his men’s and women’s clothes behind him. I’ve been AWOL from the office since my disappearance, and in this economy, I doubt if my job will be waiting for me if I ever do make it back. So I’m living as a woman in Mexico. I’ll try to beg or steal enough postage to send this letter, if you do get it please break into my apartment, find my passport, and come to my rescue before I make up my mind to stay this way forever!

Grow a Pair!

 © 2010 by Nom de Plume

Pesticide Turns Males Into Females

BERKELEY: Atrazine, one of the world's most widely used pesticides, wreaks havoc with the sex lives of adult male frogs, emasculating three-quarters of them and turning one in 10 into females, according to a new study by University of California, Berkeley biologist Hung Lo.
The 75 percent that are chemically castrated are missing testosterone and all the things that testosterone controls, including sperm. The 10 percent or more that turn from males into females can successfully mate with male frogs. "We have animals that are females, in the sense that they behave like females: They have estrogen, lay eggs, they mate with other males,” Dr. Lo reported. “Atrazine has caused a hormonal imbalance that has made them develop into the wrong sex, in terms of their genetic constitution.
“You have studies all over the world showing problems with atrazine in every vertebrate that has been looked at: fish, frogs, reptiles, birds, even mammals. Not every frog or every human will be affected by atrazine, but do you want to take that chance?”
* * *
I tossed the Chronicle into the trash, ignoring my unused recycling bin, and fumbled for the cigarettes in the pocket of my Armani jacket. After filling my lungs with a long drag, I strode onto my terrace overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge and tried to calculate how many millions of dollars Dr. Lo had cost me this morning.

What an unmitigated disaster! Only last week, my hedge fund had acquired a controlling interest in BelchFahrt AG, the German company which manufactured atrazine. Until this morning, atrazine was the miracle pesticide which accounted for 80% of BelchFahrt’s profits. Not any more, I thought morosely as I flicked my lit cigarette over the terrace rail, watching it spin towards the worker bees hurrying to their dead-end jobs on the street far below.

No way was I going back to that rat race, not after all I’d been through…cutting corners without a moral compass had landed me in a Russian Hill penthouse with an eight figure income at the age of twenty-nine, and I wasn’t about to let some pinko professor screw it up now. I grabbed the keys to my Ferrari and took the elevator down to the garage. In a few minutes, I was jumping red lights and swerving in and out of the lane reserved for busses and taxis on Market Street.

After sneaking into the carpool onramp to the Bay Bridge, I hung on the bumper in front of me while I scrolled through messages on my BlackBerry. As I feared, the rout was on, judging from the dozens of panicked emails from investors about the collapse of BelchFahrt’s share value. It was only a matter of time before they started bailing out of my fund like lemmings, and who could blame them? Unless I took swift, decisive action, I’d be just another blood-sucking vulture with a bulls-eye on my back, in court for the rest of my life, hounded by ruined investors, financial reporters and government snoops.

If I’d been thinking clearly, perhaps I’d have taken the time to devise a plan, something that would enable me to get to Dr. Lo without leaving any fingerprints. Unfortunately, I’d always been a rash risk-taker, and “grow a pair” was my favorite response when one of my underlings came to me with a problem. Sadly, the pair which I was about to grow was not what I had in mind….I looked up just in time to see the driver ahead of me flashing his brakelights, and only blind instinct saved me from causing a chain-reaction collision that would have tied up the bridge for hours. Looking back now, how I wish that had happened!

I shot through a gap between lanes, ignoring the blaring horns and obscene gestures, and sped my way to The People’s Republic of Berkeley. Parking near the campus was impossible, so I pulled into a handicapped spot, activated the alarm system and joined the bizarre throng of jocks, coeds, geeks and freaks on the sprawling campus. A quick search on my BlackBerry confirmed the location of Dr. Lo’s laboratory, which I plugged into my GPS application without breaking stride. When I got to the biology building, classes were just letting out, and a hot Asian student helpfully pointed out Dr. Lo as he scurried by.

I stalked him down the crowded hall, sizing him up: short and scruffy, your typical absent-minded professor, oblivious to the real-world impact of his harebrained theories…I waited until he opened the door to his lab, then before he could close it behind him, I pushed my way in and slammed the door shut behind me. He turned around, startled. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important. Calm down, we have some business to discuss.”

“What kind of business? Do you have an appointment? Let me check with my secretary,” he said, reaching for the phone on his cluttered desk. Without hesitation I beat him to it and tore the wire out of the wall. “You must be insane!” he screamed. “Help!”

“Shut up, you lousy commie! You’ve ruined me! You’re going to retract your findings about atrazine,” I snarled, wrapping the telephone cord around his neck.

For a little man he was surprisingly strong, and he must have studied judo, because before I knew it he’d spun out of my grasp. I grabbed him from behind and we started wrestling next to the table beside his desk, which was covered with glass beakers full of fluid. Just when I thought I had him pinned, I lost my balance and fell with a crash onto the table, shattering glass and spilling chemicals all over myself. God, they smelled like…pesticide! Dr. Lo was out the door by now and I started after him, slipping on a puddle on the floor and knocking another beaker full of pesticide all over myself. I was drenched with the awful stuff by the time I got back on my feet and staggered into the hall, where a crowd had gathered outside the lab.

In a panic, I raced out of the building and ran across the campus, back to my Ferrari, just in time to watch it being towed away from the handicapped parking space, the alarm blaring forlornly. My desperate attempt to bribe the tow truck driver was to no avail, and I cursed him as it disappeared, taunted by the hippies who had undoubtedly blown the whistle on my car. I left before they could turn their wrath on me, and it took forever to find a BART station and figure out how to make my way back to the City. You’d think I had leprosy the way people avoided me in the stations and on the train, reeking as I was from the noxious chemicals which had soaked my skin and corroded my BlackBerry, totally cutting me off from the outside world.

Hours later, when I finally staggered back to my condo and logged onto my computer, my worst fears were realized: a tidal wave of share redemptions had reduced my hedge fund to a child’s piggy bank, there were too many emails to count, and my voice mailbox was overloaded. Not to mention the lead news story about some madman who had attacked a Berkeley professor…I had a splitting headache from the fumes still permeating my clothes and skin, so I took too many vicodin and collapsed into bed.

The next morning, when I finally came to, I took a long shower and tossed my ruined clothes into the trash. I still reeked of pesticide, and I felt sick to my stomach. With trepidation, I fetched the Chronicle and paged through it, not the business section but the local news. At least the cops hadn’t connected me with the Berkeley incident:

Berkeley Biologist Assaulted

BERKELEY: Campus police were baffled by an unprovoked attack on Berkeley biologist Hung Lo in his laboratory yesterday. Dr. Lo, who recently made headlines with his research into the dangerous side-effects of the pesticide atrazine, had just finished a lecture to undergraduates when he was assaulted. Lo described the man as well-dressed, in his late twenties, short and slim with brown hair.

The description fit me to a tee, and I decided to wait until things cooled down before retrieving my Ferrari. Not that I’d be able to afford the payments on it: a quick check on my computer confirmed that BelchFahrt stock was in freefall, thanks to atrazine, and I spend the rest of the morning sifting through the wreckage of my hedge fund, fielding calls and emails from outraged investors.

My net worth was down to zero, on the books that was…fortunately I’d refinanced my penthouse just before the real estate bubble collapsed, and stashed the proceeds in an offshore bank account, free from the grasping hands of plaintiffs’ lawyers and the IRS. They’d be after me soon enough! It was time to disappear.

* * *

Three months later, I arose as usual before dawn for a long run. I missed San Francisco, which had been a playground for a rich, straight bachelor: so many of the guys in that town were gay, a single guy could get all the women he wanted, like shooting fish in a barrel. Not that I had any complaints about my place of refuge: Maui was paradise, and I’d settled in comfortably to my life in exile, using a fake identity I’d scored over the Internet. I’d changed my appearance too, losing a lot of weight and growing my hair down to my shoulders. I tied it back in a ponytail before I pounded out the miles, savoring the scent of plumaria and hibiscus in the sweet morning air.

Only one thing troubled me in paradise, and it was becoming a growing concern. At first I’d had my way with the beautiful women trolling Kaanapali beach, but lately my prowess with the ladies had taken an alarming turn. I was finding it harder and harder to become aroused, and when I did it was taking me longer and longer…in fact, the last several times had been a total failure, something which had never happened to me before. I began shunning the clubs and bars, for fear of being humiliated, and I spent my lonely evenings searching the Internet for some clue as to what might be happening to me.

And it wasn’t just performance anxiety…my body was changing in subtle ways, so slowly that at first I dismissed them, until they became too obvious to ignore. In some respects, my health actually improved: my skin took on a soft, healthy glow, my long auburn hair had a newfound luster, and the raging intensity which had driven me in business had been replaced by a strange serenity which suited my life of leisure. It was the flipside that terrified me: my muscle tone seemed to be weakening, my package felt funny and my chest was very tender. Still, I probably would have ignored my symptoms and remained in denial were it not for the events of that morning.

I was jogging east towards Lahaina, dressed only in a singlet and shorts, my ponytail bouncing in the breeze, when I sensed a car slowing behind me. I turned around to see if the driver needed directions, only to find a guy a foot taller than I was making a menacing move in my direction. “Dude, what’s your problem?” I shouted.

I could see the shock on his face before he backed off. “Uh, sorry, I thought you were a chick.” I stood rooted to the ground as he jumped into his car and roared off, in search of some other helpless female! He’d mistaken me for a woman!

Shaken, I hightailed it back to my apartment. Should I call the police, and give them a description of the car and driver before he could prey on an innocent woman? I quickly dismissed the thought: I was on the lam, and the last thing I needed was to draw attention to myself. Sadly, I took a long, hard look at myself in the mirror: my God, no wonder that creep thought I was a girl from behind, I looked like one!

It wasn’t just my long hair and slim limbs…with trepidation, I stripped naked and studied my bronzed body in the full-length mirror on my closet door. My butt was definitely plumper, almost like a girl’s, but far more devastating was my chest. I’d been in denial about it, but now I faced the truth: I had manboobs. I cupped them in my hands and felt them jiggle and bounce…I was growing a pair all right, a pair of tits! I stared at them for a long time, then I lowered my glance: my other pair seemed to be shrinking, and worst of all, my dick wasn’t hanging like it used to…it stayed soft all the time now, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had an erection.

With that, I reached for the phone and scheduled an appointment with the first doctor I found in the yellow pages.

* * *

“Extraordinary!” Dr. Banzai exclaimed as he scrutinized my X-ray. Hunched over his battered rattan desk in an aloha shirt, flip flops and board shorts, he hardly inspired confidence. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The last words I needed to hear. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with me, doc?”

“Let me ask you a few questions. Are you on any medication?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you haven’t taken any hormones, or steroids?”

“Like I said, no!”

“Extraordinary…I don’t know how to phrase this, but it seems like you are changing…”

“Changing? Into what?”

He fixed me with an idiotic smile. “Into a wahini.”

“What?”

“I know, it’s completely bizarre, but chemically your body is already female, and your genitals are rapidly adapting to their new environment.”

“That’s crazy!”

“I know…I think I should refer you to a specialist on the mainland, perhaps there’s some precedent for your condition.”

The last thing I needed! Any serious physician would insist on seeing my medical history…“No thanks, doc, I’ll stick with you. What can you do for me?”

“The question is, what can you do for yourself?”

“Huh?”

He spoke the words I will never forget: “Technically, you are no longer a man. Your testicles have atrophied beyond the point of no return, and your penis seems to be receding. Your breasts are well on their way, in another month you’ll need to start wearing a bra. Are you sure you’re not holding something back? Are you on some kind of therapy?”

I turned on him in a blind fury. “You’re crazy if you think I wanted this! Can’t you do anything to help me? There’s got to be a way,” I shouted.

“I wish I could. It’s almost like you’ve been chemically castrated. That’s why I asked if you were taking any medication.”

My rage turned to tears, and I started to sob uncontrollably. “Please…tell me this isn’t really happening.”

The doctor put his arm around my shoulder and tried to console me. “I know how hard this must be for you,” he said with a sigh. “But the sooner you accept your fate, the sooner you’ll be able to adapt to your new…condition.”

“Are you sure there’s no cure? Can’t you do something?”

“Well, of course we could initiate sex reassignment therapy in reverse, treating you with massive dosages of testosterone and surgically removing your breasts. But I’m afraid it’s too late to save your male genetalia…at best, you’d be….”

“I’d be what?”

“A eunuch with a menehune penis.”

At the sound of that, I became violently sick.

* * *

I refused to accept Dr. Banzai’s diagnosis. No way was I turning into a woman! I spent hours on the Internet, trying to determine if such a thing had ever happened in human history, and there was no precedent for it. I had to find a real doctor, one who wore shoes! This was all some kind of cruel joke, a cosmic payback for my years of philandering, as if all the women I’d ever wronged were conspiring to emasculate me. Could it be that some bitch I’d burned slipped something to me in a drink? Even if that had happened, surely it was impossible for one shot of any drug or hormone to cause such catastrophic changes.

It wasn’t until I stumbled upon a link during one of my marathon web searches that I began to grasp what was really happening to my manhood. Periodically, I’d been Googling Dr. Lo to see whether there were any leads connecting me with the Berkeley beat-down. Dr. Lo seemed to have fallen off the face of the earth. Two days after my examination by Dr. Banzai, I was astonished to read this article:

Nobel Prize to Transgendered Professor

STOCKHOLM: The Nobel Prize Committee announced today that Dr. Nomo Hung of the United States has been awarded the Nobel Prize in chemistry for her pioneering work linking the pesticide atrazine to the emasculation of frogs and other species. Dr. Hung, formerly Hung Lo, stunned colleagues at the University of California earlier this year when she began presenting herself as a woman.

The revelation it hit me like a ton of bricks. Atrazine! All the while, I’d been totally focused on the financial implications of Dr. Lo’s research, but now I feared the devastating truth: he’d been right all along, and somehow his prolonged exposure to atrazine during his research must have turned him into a woman too…but why me? Maybe he always wanted to become a woman? If there was one person on earth who might know a cure for my condition, it was him, her, whatever!

Of course, I’d be arrested the moment I set foot in Berkeley, unless I could come up with the perfect disguise. Surveying myself forlornly in the mirror, I knew what that disguise would have to be. Back to the computer to score another phony ID, and to research what I’d have to do to myself to pull it off….

* * *

A few days later, I took the redeye back to San Francisco in guy mode, and presented myself the next morning at The House of Fabulous, which billed itself as a transformation studio for “Boys Who Should Have Been Girls.” No doubt most of their customers were flaming gays who got their kicks out of channeling their inner RuPauls, and I wondered if I was making a huge mistake when a matronly woman greeted me at the gingerbread door of a Victorian house on Castro Street. “You must be Cissy,” she said, reciting the phony name I’d used to make an appointment. “I’m Madame Fabulous.”

“Yes,” I stammered. “I lost a bet, and I need to make myself look like a woman.”

“Of course,” she said, appraising me with a critical eye. “Frankly, I’m almost embarrassed to take your money, considering how feminine you are.”

Her words were a dagger to my heart. “I have a medical condition,” I said defensively. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Sweetheart, in a few hours I’ll have you walking out of here looking like you’ve been a woman all your life. Is that what you want?”

“Not really,” I answered honestly. “It’s a long story.”

“I have nothing but time for my customers. Tell me about yourself.”

* * *

Later that day, I emerged from The House of Fabulous in a simple cotton dress, leggings and ballet flats, a backpack slung over my shoulders. I was still in a state of shock over my transformation: my hair had been styled into a girlish ponytail, my face made up and my body squeezed into an evil undergarment called an all-in-one…in my dress, I looked totally like a girl, and as I made my way towards my Metro stop I searched the eyes of passers-by in vain for any sign of recognition or disapproval. I didn’t know whether to be glad or sad, but nobody mistook me for anything but a girl.

Madame Fabulous had grilled me about my intentions, but all she got out of me was that I needed to pass as a woman on a college campus. After she forced me to recite some stupid pledge about discovering my inner woman, she handed me off to one of her “mistresses” who proceeded to humiliate me. My body was stripped, measured and waxed (sheer torture) then my hair was pruned, my eyebrows plucked, and my nails polished. The wardrobe department, which catered to crossdressers getting dolled up for hot nights on the town, featured miniskirts, fishnets and stilettos, so one of the mistresses had to make a run to Old Navy to put together my co-ed outfit. Unlike the other customers who were eagerly enjoying their transformations, I was obviously miserable, and the mistresses seemed happy to see me go.

Although I felt ridiculous, I had to admit that my dress was comfortable enough, and my leggings underneath were almost like wearing pants. I’d tried to talk the mistresses into letting me wear jeans, but they convinced me that I’d be more convincing in a dress, since it would force me to walk and sit like a woman. I don’t think my ego could have taken it if they’d made me put on anything really girly! My flats pinched my bare toes a bit but they made my feet look dainty, and I was grateful I wasn’t trying to walk in heels.

My confidence rose each time I paused at a storefront window to study my reflection. For some reason I looked much younger this way, almost cute, judging from the looks I was getting from the few straight men in that part of town. The House of Fabulous had given me a crash course in how to carry myself as a woman, and I concentrated on shortening my stride, standing up straight and above all, confidence! “A smile is your best camouflage” one of the mistresses told me.

My guy clothes and shoes were stuffed in my backpack, along with a new woman’s wallet, lip gloss, a hairbrush, and a throwaway cell phone. I caught one of the renovated antique streetcars to downtown San Francisco, where I transferred to a BART train to Berkeley. I was relieved that nobody paid much attention to me, although the looks from guys increased the farther away I got from The Castro!

Emerging from the BART station on Shattuck Avenue, I stopped at a drugstore to pick up a pencil and notebook. As an afterthought, I also bought pair of women’s sunglasses, although my disguise was so perfect there was little risk that anybody would clock me as Dr. Lo’s assailant. Make that Dr. Hung, I reminded myself…the email I’d sent her from a new hotmail address introduced myself as a psychology major who was doing a paper on transgenderism, and she had agreed to give me a few minutes of her time that afternoon.

I took my time meandering through the beautiful campus, trying to rehearse in my mind the questions I’d be asking Dr. Hung. When nobody was nearby, I practiced the girlish voice which the mistresses had drilled into me, feeling very self-conscious. By the time I got to the biology building, I was nervous as a kitten, a far cry from the master of the universe who’d stormed this ivory tower a few months earlier. How the mighty have fallen, I thought ruefully as I fussed with my dress and freshened my lip gloss in the ladies’ room. I perched my sunglasses on top of my head, took a long last look at myself in the mirror, and headed down the hall to Dr. Hung’s office before I could change my mind.

Her door was ajar, and it opened wide when I knocked on it tentatively. The lab looked just the same, except for the person behind the desk: instead of a scruffy little Asian man, an incredibly hot Asian chick looked up from the journal she was reading and waved me in. I took off my backpack and sat down awkwardly in the offered chair, tugging my dress down to my knees. I held my breath and waited to see if she would pick up her phone to call campus security.

But she didn’t recognize me, and I took the initiative before she could ask me any questions of her own. “Thank you so much for seeing me today,” I chirped in my valley girl voice. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Dr. Hung smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time. How can I help you?” I stole a glance under the desk, curious to see her open-toed heels showing off a perfect pedicure. I saw enough leg to know that she was wearing a skirt or dress, and her hair and makeup were also perfect.

“I’m studying transgender issues. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? I’ve never met a transgendered person, and you’re famous so I hoped you wouldn’t mind, I mean I hoped you wouldn’t be offended…I’m sorry, I’m so nervous!”

Dr. Hung tried to put me at ease. “It’s okay, Miss Boyd. As long as you’re not from the media, I’m happy to talk to you.”

“Me, the media? In my dreams!” I laughed. Dr. Hung laughed too. “I know you’re busy, so can I just ask you some questions?” I pulled the notebook out of my backpack and started to scribble.

“Fire away.”

“Okay, like how long did you know you wanted to become a woman?”

Dr. Hung frowned. “You should never jump to conclusions, Miss Boyd.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Don’t apologize, your question is quite natural. I am not a typical transsexual. However, I’ve come to understand that most transgendered people do not wish their condition on themselves, rather they profoundly believe they were born into the wrong bodies. So it’s not a matter of choice. In my case, I was born into the right body, but my body changed.”

That was the opening I’d been hoping for. “What made your body change?”

“Do you know anything about my research?”

I screwed up my face. “You like won a noble prize for studying frogs, right?”

She sat back and smiled. “Something like that. My primary research was into the toxic effects of a pesticide called atrazine.” She saw me pause my scribbling. “That’s a-t-r-i-z-i-n-e, Miss Boyd. I discovered that atrizine caused male frogs to turn into female frogs. And I suspected that atrazine could cause the same effect in other species, including humans. Unfortunately, my theory was all too accurate,” she said with a sigh.

“Wow. That’s amazing. I can’t believe I didn’t know that!”

“I’ve kept the link between my research and my personal situation very private, not wanting to turn my research into a media sensation. Someday, when the time is right, I’ll reveal it in a dignified forum. In the meantime, I have much more research to do about atrizine feminization.”

“Did you like drink atrizine to see if this would happen to you?”

“No!” Dr. Hung chuckled. “I’m not some Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. The sad fact is, all it took was daily contact of atrazine against my skin over a prolonged period of time for this to happen to me.”

“So this couldn’t happen to someone unless they had years and years of exposure?” I asked hopefully.

“I didn’t say that. My research indicates that a massive infusion of atrazine through the skin can have the same results.” I had a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. “For example, if you dip a male frog in atrazine and leave it overnight without washing off the solution, the chances of that frog turning into a female are very high.” I closed my eyes and thought back to that awful day, in this very room: I’d been soaked to the skin in atrazine, and I hadn’t even taken a shower until the next morning.

My hands were shaking so hard I had to stop writing in my notebook. “What’s the cure?” I blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, is there some other chemical that turns you back into a guy?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy,” she sighed, getting up from her desk to signify that our interview was over. She was drop-dead gorgeous in her jade silk dress, which showed off her curves and cleavage magnificently. “The biology of transitioning from male to female is relatively straightforward, whereas the reverse would be infinitely more complex.”

I got to my feet and she showed me to her door. “You’re very pretty,” I stammered.

“Thank you. In a way, I’m very fortunate. Like most aspects of nature, the physical characteristics of the human population fall into a bell-shaped curve: on the one extreme is the Cal football team, who would never be able to pass as women if this happened to them. On the other extreme are short, slender men like me, and so many others of Asian descent who find it relatively easy to cross the gender boundary.”

“You just said men like me…I thought you were a woman now?”

“That remains to be seen, Miss Boyd. In my work with frogs, I learned that while 75% of the affected males were emasculated, only 10% actually became females, capable of bearing young. As a scientist, I’m rather curious to find out my fate. When I know, it will be time to tell the world. Until then, what we’ve discussed this afternoon will be just between us girls, okay?”

“Uh, sure,” I said in a daze. We shook hands awkwardly and I left her, utterly devastated by what I’d learned: I’d been emasculated by atrazine, there was no known cure, and there was even the possibility that I’d turn completely into a woman. I stumbled outside and began walking aimlessly across the campus. My backpack suddenly felt very heavy. Might as well toss my clothes and shoes, they were no good to me now…I watched my lengthening shadow as the sun dipped low on the horizon, mesmerized by the dress swirling around my knees in the breeze. Better get used to it, buddy!

At least I was on the right end of Dr. Hung’s bell-shaped curve! At 5’8” and 140 pounds, with a full head of long hair, I was totally convincing as a pretty girl. I stopped at a footbridge overlooking Strawberry Creek, pondering my future, when two of those Cal football players on the other end of Dr. Hung’s bell-shaped curve came up and invited me to a frat party. Better get used to it, baby!

After I blew them off, I continued on my way back to the BART station, my immediate future decided. I was unrecognizable as a woman, which meant I could stay in San Francisco and live off my pirated millions. I’d been a total shit as a guy, would I become a better person as a woman? Naah…I always dug girl-on-girl porn, maybe I could make it as a lipstick lesbian while I continued my search for a cure? I wondered how I’d look in a miniskirt, fishnets and stilettos….

I fumbled through my backpack for my cell phone and hit redial, which put me through to The House of Fabulous. “Hi, this is Cissy. Today went great, you guys are awesome…can I make another appointment for tomorrow? We have some serious work to do.”

Miss Anne Thrope

 © 2004 by Nom de Plume

As I write this tale of woe, the sight of manicured fingers flitting over my keyboard evokes the utter misery of my situation. Not long ago, I was vice president of a major pharmaceutical firm, with a six figure salary and a corner office. Now I am sitting in a secretary’s cubicle, trying to keep from snagging my pantyhose each time I escape from my pathetic little desk. How did this ever happen to me?

It all began one fateful morning when one of the geniuses in research and development came into my office with a hangdog expression on his face. I was busy packing up my briefcase for a two week road show which would launch our new diet miracle product, Metabolean. The test results had been sensational, and I sold the board of directors on an aggressive plan to market Metabolean to our target customers, overweight females, through a network of kiosks at shopping centers and strip malls throughout the country.

Because Metabolean was technically an herb, our company lawyers found a way to skate around FDA testing requirements. Our own research had shown that regular doses of Metabolean resulted in a weight loss of anywhere between five to ten pounds per week, without any significant side-effects. Or so I thought until Dr. Gefuhlgut broke the news to me that morning. “Uh, there is a little problem with Metabolean that we need to talk about,” he stammered.

“Problem? What kind of problem? You’re not going to tell me about production delays, are you? We’re already committed to a huge media buy, the lawyers have tied up sites around the country with long-term leases, and I’m leaving for the airport in ten minutes to kickoff our marketing plan.”

“No, production is right on schedule. The problem is with the product.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked impatiently.

Dr. Gefuhlgut wrung his hands. “Some of our early test subjects have developed an unexpected condition.”

I stopped packing my briefcase and looked him square in the eyes. “What kind of condition?”

“Well, as you know, Metabolean was given first to inmates at federal correctional facilities who volunteered to take part in clinical trials. Both male and female institutions participated in the first round of tests. Now, the good news is that none of the male inmates have exhibited any form of side-effects.”

“And the bad news?”

Dr. Gefuhlgut pulled an 8x10 photograph from an inside pocked of his white lab coat. When he handed it to me, I actually laughed out loud. It was a group portrait of around twenty female prisoners. “As you know,” Dr. Gefuhlgut said, “the inmates were divided into two groups: a control group who were given placebos, and the inmates who were administered doses of Metabolean.”

There was no doubt who was who in the photograph I was staring at. Half of the women were enormously fat, and the other half had beards and mustaches. “My God,” I said, “it looks like a casting call for a freak show! We have the fat lady candidates over here, and the bearded lady candidates over there.”

“Yes, well, that is one way of putting it. What are we going to do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“What?”

“Look, this is only the first group of test subjects, right?”

“Yes, but you would expect any symptoms to be exhibited by them first. The other groups haven’t had enough time to experience the side-effects.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this is a coincidence of some kind. Anyway, you can’t expect me to shitcan a multi-million dollar campaign at the last minute based on one test result, can you?”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Come on, what’s a little facial hair? Just between us girls, I think the chicks with the beards are hotter than the porkers, don’t you? Anyway, worse comes to worse, they can dress up as guys.” Tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks as I inserted the photograph into the shredder beside my credenza.

Had I been thinking clearly, I would have realized that Dr. Gefuhlgut could make another copy of the photograph. What I couldn’t have known was that he had a tape recorder in the side pocket of his lab coat.

SETTLEMENT REACHED IN METABOLEAN CASE

Chicago — Class action lawyers for thousands of woman made hirsute by Metabolean expressed “gratification” with the terms of a settlement reached with the pharmaceutical giant which manufactured the ill-fated diet pill. The multi-billion dollar settlement was hammered out in a mediation held behind closed doors on the eve of trial. Although specific terms were not disclosed, Aaron Thrope, the executive responsible for the Metabolean disaster, is said to have been “reassigned” to another position in the company.

* * *

Reassigned, indeed. The mediator was a tough-ass bitch who looked like Jesse Ventura in drag, and it was clear from the beginning that the company was prepared to throw me to the wolves. I watched helplessly as a parade of bearded ladies sobbed out their pathetic stories, trying to look sympathetic while the gallows was constructed around me. The feds were all over the company too, and their lawyers tried desperately to pin the whole fiasco on me. Still, my defense of ignorance was holding up well until Dr. Gefuhlgut did me in. The transcript of the tape recording he made to cover his ass was devastating.

MR. THROPE: “My God, it looks like a casting call for a freak show! We have the fat lady candidates over here, and the bearded lady candidates over there.”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “Yes, well, that is one way of putting it. What are we going to do?”

MR. THROPE: “Absolutely nothing.”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “What?”

MR. THROPE “Look, this is only the first group of test subjects, right?”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “Yes, but you would expect any symptoms to be exhibited by them first. The other groups haven’t had enough time to experience the side-effects.”

MR. THROPE: “Maybe. Or maybe this is a coincidence of some kind. Anyway, you can’t expect me to shitcan a multi-million dollar campaign at the last minute based on one test result, can you?”

DR. GEFUHLGUT: “You can’t be serious!”

MR. THROPE: “Come on, what’s a little facial hair? Just between us girls, I think the chicks with the beards are hotter than the porkers, don’t you? Anyway, worse comes to worse, they can dress up as guys. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

I felt like crawling under the table as the tape recorder played on. The rest of the mediation was a blur as the lawyers shouted at each other and divvied up the spoils. I knew my job was history, but the prospect of personal liability and maybe even jail time loomed. Just when it seemed like all was lost, the mediator swiveled her guns on me. The transcript tells the tale.

THE MEDIATOR: “It would seem, Mr. Thrope, that you are the culprit in this drama.”

MR. THROPE: “I was only doing my job.”

THE MEDIATOR: “Do you know what you are, Mr. Thrope?”

MR. THROPE: “Broke and out of work?”

THE MEDIATOR: “You, Mr. Thrope, are a misanthrope.”

MR. THROPE: “A what?”

THE MEDIATOR: “A misanthrope. It means you have a hatred for mankind. You are not fit to live amongst civilized society, Mr. Thrope. At least not as you are. Fortunately, I have had time to fashion a remedy for this situation. A remedy which is uniquely tailored to the suffering you have brought about.”

MR. THROPE: “I have my rights!”

THE MEDIATOR: “Of course you do, Mr. Thrope. You have every right to walk out of this room, and spend the rest of your life paying damages in the millions. Or, you can accept the terms which I am about to impose on you.”

MR. THROPE: “What terms?”

THE MEDIATOR: “When you were confronted with the side-effects of Metabolean, you joked about how your unfortunate victims could dress up as the opposite sex to conceal their shame and embarrassment. I have similar conditions in mind for you.”

MR. THROPE: “What conditions?”

THE MEDIATOR: “Because of you, thousands of women were forced to endure the humiliation of being transformed against their will. The very essence of their being, their femininity, was taken from them. As a condition to accepting the monetary settlement which your employer has put on the table, representatives of the plaintiffs have demanded that you atone for your misdoings. When I shared my idea with them, they were delighted with it.”

MR. THROPE: “What idea?”

THE MEDIATOR: “Just between us girls, I am going to turn you into one.”

MR. THROPE: “What?”

THE MEDIATOR: “Immediately after these proceedings are adjourned, you will be required to live as a woman for a term of one year. During this period of time, you will be required to work as an entry level employee for the company which you so recklessly misguided.”

MR. SNEAD: “You can’t make me do that!”

THE MEDIATOR: “You are entirely right. The choice will be yours, not mine. Your employers have agreed not to seek indemnification from you for the billions of dollars which you have cost their shareholders, and to keep you on the payroll, if you comply with my conditions.”

MR. THROPE: “This is insane!”

THE MEDIATOR: “Think it over, Mr. Thrope. Or should I say, Miss Anne Thrope? You will be issued identification befitting your new gender, and the company has even agreed to pay for a complete makeover and a new wardrobe for you. Of course, you will have to move into a smaller apartment, something you can afford on the salary of a working girl. Think it over, Miss Thrope.”

* * *

At the end of the day, what choice did I have? That’s what I kept telling myself as I signed the Consent Decree which required me to “act, dress and live as a member of the female sex until one year from the date of this agreement.” Unfortunately, I didn’t take the time to read the fine print in the twenty page document. If I had, there’s no doubt in my mind that I would have jumped out one of the conference room windows before I signed it.

A Special Mistress was appointed by the mediator to oversee my transformation. Her name was Donna Mae Trix. Donna was about thirty, very attractive in a mannish sort of way, and under other circumstances I might have tried to get into her pants. As I was soon to learn, those days were gone forever, or at least for the next year of my life.

The nightmare began when Donna escorted me out of the mediation to the hoots and catcalls of a mob of mustachioed harpies. After we ran the gauntlet, I was ushered into a waiting minivan and driven to salon in the gay area of Chicago known as “Boys Town”. When Donna and I entered the salon, an evil-looking woman was waiting for us in the lobby.

“You must be Mr. Thrope,” she said with elaborate courtesy. “I am delighted to meet you at last. Welcome to my salon.”

“All hope abandon, ye who enter here!” Donna said with fiendish grin.

“Now Donna, let’s not be melodramatic. My name is Cassandra. Until recently, the vast majority of my customers were men, but I am greatly indebted to you for tripling my business this year. Now, over half of my customers are women seeking to undo the side-effects of Metabolean. I have been doing a land-office business in laser hair removal.”

“Which is exactly what we have in mind for Mr. Thrope,” Donna said. “Although from now on, please refer to her as Anne.”

The significance of Donna’s words was soon to become apparent. In my naiveté, I had assumed that I would simply have to wear dresses for a year, which would be humiliating enough. Little could I have imagined the misfortunes that awaited me.

Donna handed a copy of the Consent Decree to Cassandra. For what seemed like an eternity, she flipped through the pages, nodding and cackling to herself occasionally. Finally she put it down and rubbed her hands together. “Congratulations, Anne,” she said. “Your employers have agreed to splurge on the Lass-E-Dream Treatment. Please follow me.” With Donna prodding me from behind, I followed Cassandra into a windowless room with an examination table, a scale, and a piece of machinery that looked like a washing machine with wires attached to it.

“Please strip down to your shorts,” Cassandra told me. When I hesitated, she dropped all pretense of politeness. “Off with your clothes, at once! My instructions are to notify the mediator immediately if there is the slightest lack of cooperation.” That was enough to goad me into taking off my shoes, shirt and slacks, which Donna scooped up and tossed into a trash bag. I started to protest, but thought the better of it and bit my tongue. “Get on the scale,” Cassandra instructed me, and without hesitation I complied.

She stepped behind the scale and measured my height before fiddling with the weights. After pronouncing that I was five feet nine inches tall and weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds, she appraised my physique with a critical eye. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Thirty-eight.”

“You have kept yourself remarkably fit, Anne. Best of all, with your dark hair and fair complexion, you are an ideal candidate for laser treatments. As I mentioned, the Lass-E-Dream program has been selected, for which you should be very grateful. One of the downsides to laser hair removal is temporary swelling and reddening of the skin afterwards, and with the amount of body and facial hair we have to remove from you, several weeks of treatments would ordinarily be required. Take this,” she said, handing me a pill and a paper cup.

“What is it?” I asked, looking warily at the little white pill in my hand.

“Don’t be alarmed,” she chuckled. “It is just a sedative to make you drowsy.”

“Why do you want to put me to sleep?” I asked nervously.

Cassandra sighed with obvious irritation. “If you want to drag this out, be my guest. I get paid the same either way. With the Lass-E-Dream program, we are able to remove all of your hair in one session, and by the time you wake up, the worst of the swelling will be over.”

I knew I was trapped either way, but some instinct told me to prolong the inevitable. “What if I’d rather take it a little slower?”

“That is entirely your prerogative,” Donna chimed in. “However, under the terms of the Consent Decree you signed, the clock on your year as a female does not start running until your makeover is complete.” For the first time, I realized that I had made a colossal mistake in not reading the agreement. Too proud to admit my stupidity, I swallowed the pill and washed it down. “Excellent,” Cassandra said. “Why don’t you lie down while we get ready to start on you.” I was already beginning to feel lightheaded, and it was all I could do to hoist myself onto the examination table before I passed out.

* * *

When I awakened, I found myself in a strange room. Sunlight streamed in through windows adorned with floral curtains, and reflected off bright yellow walls and antique white furniture to assault my bleary eyes. I squinted at my surroundings, and slowly realized that I was lying under a pile of covers in a queen sized bed. I lifted my head off the plush pillows and started to pull back the covers when everything hit me at once.

What the hell have I got on? Holy shit, what happened to my arm? There’s no hair on it. And why is there hair hanging down over my eyes? When I reached up to brush it away from my face, I found myself staring at polished fingernails. Tearing off the covers, I saw my legs, sleek and hairless, under the hem of my satin nightgown. I fell back onto the pillows as it all came back to me. The realization that I had been made over in my sleep to look like a woman was slowly sinking in when I heard the door open.

“Good morning, Anne. I was beginning to think you’d sleep through the whole year,” Donna said with exaggerated sweetness. I opened my eyes to see her hovering over the bed, a look of triumph on her face.

“Where am I?”

“In your new apartment, of course.”

“Apartment? What happened to…Cassandra?”

“That was days ago. Once she finished with your laser treatments, there was a little more swelling than we anticipated, so we decided to let you sleep until your skin was back to normal. Of course, this gave us plenty of time to decide on a hairstyle for you and weave it into place, and it also let your fingernails grow just long enough for us to do something with.”

“Do you mean the laser treatments are finished?” I asked as I tried to get up. I was still feeling a little light-headed, and Donna had to grasp my arm as I got unsteadily to my feet. When I looked down and saw that my toenails had been polished too, I nearly passed out again.

“Oh yes, your body and facial hair are gone forever.”

That shocked me back into reality. “What do you mean, gone forever?”

“Anne, the Consent Decree required you to subject yourself to the same treatments prescribed for the female victims of Metabolean. Laser hair removal is permanent. The follicles absorb energy from the laser until they die and can no longer grow hair.”

“Nobody told me that!”

“Cheer up! Now you’ll never have to shave again.”

“You little bitch! I’ll get you for this!”

Donna whipped a pistol out of her purse and pointed it at me. “The mediator was afraid you might react this way. The dart in this gun is filled enough female hormones to knock the stuffing out of you. Bend over.”

I pushed her aside and made a dash for the door. I heard a thwack and felt a sharp pain in my ass. Too late, I reached back and tried desperately to pull the dart out of my skin, but by the time I was able to find it in the satin folds of my nightgown, its awful payload was coursing through my system.

Holding the dart in my hand, I looked at my knees shaking under my nightgown, and for the first time in memory I started to cry. “Oh my,” Donna observed. “I had no idea the estrogen would start in so quickly!”

I slammed the door in her face and crawled back into bed, broken down with misery.

* * *

Later that day, I came to terms with my fate. Maybe it was the psychological impact of having my body laced with female hormones, or maybe it was the stark language of the Consent Decree that I finally got around to reading. As I sat in bed on my sore ass, pouring over page after page, the enormity of my predicament sank in:

“Defendant’s legal name will be changed to Anne Thrope.”

“Defendant is to present herself as a woman at all times. Female hormones will be administered if necessary to modify defendant’s behavior.”

“The wearing of any articles of male clothing by defendant during the term of this agreement is prohibited.”

On and on it went, stripping me of any vestige of masculinity, making me sick to my stomach. The kicker came at the very end: “Any violation of the conditions of this agreement shall have the effect of extending the term hereof for an additional period of one year.” That meant if I slipped up even once, I would be forced to start my year as a woman all over again, or subject myself to millions of dollars of civil liability to Metabolean victims Once I realized that I was trapped, I resigned myself to coping as best I could with the maniacal agreement I had so foolishly signed.

When I finally opened my bedroom door to throw in the towel, Donna was waiting for me in the small living room. “Hello, Anne. Are you ready to get dressed?”

“Not really, but what choice to I have?”

“That’s the spirit! Why don’t we start with a nice hot bath?” She led the way into the bathroom, and I watched disconsolately as she poured a capful of bubble bath into the tub and started filling it with steaming water. The sight of myself in the mirror above the vanity was truly shocking: my face was smooth, without any trace of stubble, and long dark hair fell down around the shoulders of my nightgown. When I looked at myself more closely, I realized that I had a small stud in each ear. Donna saw me fingering them and said, “You should be ready for nice earrings today.”

I wondered what else they might have done to me. With trepidation, I lifted up my nightgown and stared at the panties around my waist. “I’ll leave you now, Anne. Don’t forget to shampoo and condition your hair. I’ll help you style it after you’re out of the tub.” After Donna left, I pulled down my panties and relieved myself, feeling strangely ridiculous standing there holding up my nightgown. I pulled it off and sank into the tub, and as my manhood disappeared beneath the bubbles, my smooth arms and legs looked just like those of a woman.

Eventually I soaped up my hairless body and shampooed my now-long hair, which felt almost natural. I had an idea that a good weave was very expensive, and for the first time I got an inkling of how much money my employers were spending to mollify the Metabolean plaintiffs. After I dried myself off, I pulled on a terry cloth bathrobe that was hanging on the back of the door and walked into the bedroom to discover that Donna had laid my outfit for the day out on the bedspread: a bra, panties, nylons, a slip, a gray wool skirt and a matching top were arrayed before me. I was staring at them when she walked back into the room. “Oh my, look at your hair! Come on, Anne, let me show you how to do something with yourself.”

Just go with the flow, I told myself as she sat me down in front of the vanity and went to work on my mop of wet hair. I watched as she wrapped a towel around it, like the turbans that my ex-wives and girlfriends used to create for themselves, never dreaming that I would one day need to learn how to perform the same ritual on myself. When she started curling up strands of my hair into rollers, I wondered if I could at least get a shorter hairdo that would be easier for me to take care of. As if reading my mind, Donna said, “Of course, once you get the hang of this, you may want to experiment with different styles or even a totally new look. That’s one of the fun things about being a girl.” I grimaced as she combed through wet tangles and closed my eyes in resignation when she went to work with a hair dryer. In a way, it was almost pleasant, having an attractive girl fussing over me like this, and in other circumstances I might even have found the experience erotic.

It was the same when she showed me how to apply moisturizing crá¨me to my face and body before she started in on my makeup. Only the harsh reality that this would be my routine for the next year of my life prevented me from enjoying the experience as she got down to business with her mysterious creams and powders. A scientist by training, I found it fascinating to watch my face being slowly transformed from the familiar one I had known all of my life to that of a totally different person. I protested when she started to tweeze my eyebrows, but once she had one of them halfway done, there was no point in stopping her. When she finished with a flourish of lipstick, and combed out my hair into soft feminine curls, I was astonished at the final result. “I look just like a girl,” I stammered.

“Well, what did you expect, Anne? That was the whole idea. You’re lucky your features are easy to work with. A lot of guys would look flat ugly no matter what. You were a pretty boy, and you’re gonna be a pretty girl.”

“Some luck,” I muttered as she led me back into the bedroom.

“I’m going to leave you alone to get dressed. Try not to snag your nylons with those fingernails. And call me before you put on your top, I’ve got some breast forms for you. Ta ta,” she said, closing the door behind herself before I could respond.

This really sucks, I said to myself as I surveyed the feminine finery on the bed. With a sigh, I tossed the bathrobe on the floor and morosely picked up my new panties, which were white with a little pink flower at the waistband. As I pulled them up my legs, the thin fabric stretched to accommodate my slim hips, and I realized as I tugged them on that I had lost a lot of weight during my hibernation at Cassandra’s. They held my limp penis flat against my stomach, and I worried about the effects the hormones were having on me as I tried to figure out how to put on the bra. Would I develop breasts? The bra was diabolical, and it took me a good five minutes to get it fastened around my chest. It took me a good five seconds to put my foot through the pantyhose, and I was hanging my head in frustration when Donna tapped on the door.

“Having fun?” she asked as she breezed into the room. “Oh dear, you’ve ruined your new stockings. Don’t worry, we’ve plenty more, but once you run out you’ll be on your own to replace them, and you would be shocked at how expensive pantyhose can be on a secretary’s salary.”

“Why do I have to wear them, anyway?”

“Well, I guess your legs are good enough that you could probably get by without them, if it weren’t for the dress code for secretaries. ‘Skirts or dresses and hosiery are mandatory except on casual Fridays,’ according to the company handbook. So on Fridays, or the weekends, if you want to wear slacks and knee-highs or socks, you’re welcome to buy some. On your secretary’s salary, of course. Now, stand up and let’s give you a bust.”

I didn’t understand what she meant at first, until she produced two flesh-colored forms with nipples on them and inserted them into the cups of my brassiere. Once she did, the impact was remarkable: I no longer looked like a man in women’s underwear. When I surveyed my reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door, the person looking back at me was unmistakably feminine, and downright sexy in her skimpy lingerie. Incredibly, I felt my penis beginning to stir under my panties.

“Let’s put on the rest of your things before we tackle another pair of pantyhose,” Donna said. “That’s a tip girls learn to help save them from running their nylons while they’re getting dressed.” She handed me the slip, and I was grateful to pull it on to cover up my budding erection. Donna adjusted the straps on my shoulders, then helped me pull on the top without mussing my hair too much. She showed me how to step into my skirt and twist it around to zip it up and button it, and she taught me to lift it up and tug my slip and top back into place after I centered the kick pleat behind my legs.

“Now, sit back down on the bed and I’ll show you how to put on your stockings,” she said. I watched as she took another pair out of their package and started to ball them up, one foot at a time. “Easy does it,” she said as she handed them to me and watched while I started tugging them on one leg at a time. “Careful, not too fast…watch out, you’re twisting them,” she said. As her fingers gently tugged at the delicate fabric on my smooth legs, the twitching in my panties took an a sudden urgency, and when she ordered me to stand up and pull my pantyhose over my waist, the sight of my slip and stockings under my skirt was too much for me. With an involuntary shudder, I yielded to a feeble orgasm that petered into a wet spot on my panties and hose as I blushed with embarrassment.

If Donna noticed, she pretended not to as I hurriedly tugged my skirt back down over my knees. What the hell was happening to me? Had the hormones messed me up already? Why was I so turned on by wearing women’s clothing? My mind was a jumble of confused thoughts and emotions as Donna tried to show me how to fasten a thin gold necklace behind my back and swapped my trainer studs for a pair of gold earrings. She finally got my attention back when she presented me with a shoebox containing a pair of high heels. “Here they are, Anne. This is a right of passage into womanhood. Let’s see if you can handle them.”

After everything else I’d been through, putting on a pair of women’s shoes seemed almost anti-climactic. The box said they were black pumps with a two inch heel, and when I stepped into them, other than the pinching in my toes I found them easy enough to get around in. Of course, I wouldn’t want to have to wear them for any length of time, or cover any distance in them, but that is exactly what fate had in store for me.

“Okay, let’s check out the finished product,” Donna said. “Wow, you look kind of cute, Anne.” Sizing myself up from head to toe in the full-length mirror, I had to agree with her. My pretty face was framed by soft curls, my top clung to pert breasts and a trim waist, and my high heels gave a nice curve to the silky legs below my skirt. Incredibly, I felt another stirring in my panties, and quickly sat down on the bed to stifle the feeling. When I did, my skirt slid up past my slip, provoking a lesson from Donna on how to sit like a lady. As she taught me how to smooth my skirt beneath me and cross my legs, the exquisite sensation of nylon against nylon triggered another whimpering orgasm in my panties. While the pleasure quickly subsided, I was profoundly worried about what was happening to me.

Once again, Donna snapped me back into reality with a few spritzes of cologne behind my ears. “Okay, sister, you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. How about something to eat?”

All of a sudden I realized how hungry I was. “When’s the last time I ate something,” I asked her.

“Almost three days ago. That’s how you got that girlish figure. Come on, I’ll treat us to a ladies’ lunch.”

“You mean outside?” I asked with sudden panic.

“Of course, outside. My job description as Special Mistress does not include cooking and cleaning for you! When we’re through with lunch, we can take a trip to the grocery store, and you can stock up on some essentials. You will be cooking for yourself once you start work.”

“When does that happen?”

“Based on the progress we’ve made here today, I see no reason why you can’t start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Why not? I need to give you a crash course in speaking like a woman, but we can start in on that while we’re out and about. Come on, I’ll fix you up with a purse and we’ll be off!”

“Can’t we just stay here today?”

“You can stay here if you want to. Maybe you’d like to spend the day trying on all the skirts and dresses in your closet? There’s no food in your refrigerator and I’m going out for something to eat. When I get back, we can continue where we left off, although I have to remind you that your year as a female does not begin until your makeover is complete.”

“Look at me, for God’s sake!” I exploded. “Are you telling me my makeover isn’t complete? I look like a fucking girl, and I’m even starting to act like a fucking girl!”

“Maybe so, Missy, but you certainly don’t sound very ladylike. According to the Consent Decree, you have to present yourself in a feminine fashion, including speech and deportment, at all times. Why, that little outburst alone would be enough to start the clock running all over again, if it ever gets started. Now, would you care to join me for lunch, or not?”

Utterly defeated, I watched forlornly as Donna filled a purse with lipstick, compact, a wallet with Anne Thrope’s new identification, and miscellaneous female junk. After she showed me how to sling it over my shoulder, we stepped out into the hallway of my new apartment building. “Where are we, anyway?” I asked nervously as we waited for an elevator. “And what happened to all my stuff?”

“Your old apartment has been sublet, and all of your clothes and personal effects have been placed into storage. We were lucky to get you a one-bedroom apartment in Streeterville, which is only a ten minute bus ride from the office. It’s going to be tight on your new salary, but if you’re frugal, you should be able to swing it.” Before I could say anything, the elevator doors opened, and we stepped into a crowded cab. I looked down at my feet while the elevator made multiple stops on the way down to the street level. When the doors finally opened onto the lobby, I hesitated a moment until I realized that the guys on the elevator were waiting for us to get off first. Anne gave me a little push, and the sound of my high heels clattering across the marble foyer warned me that me feet were starting to hurt.

By the time we had walked a couple of blocks on the concrete sidewalk, they were killing me. Donna pointed out a little restaurant and asked me if it looked okay. “Anyplace is fine, I’ve got to get off my feet,” I whispered.

“Poor baby. Just be glad we’re breaking them in today,” she said as we went inside. The hostess led us to a quiet table, and after sitting down carefully in my skirt, I gratefully kicked off my heels and reached down to squeeze my aching toes through my nylons. Donna told me to hang my purse on the back of my chair, and I was studying my menu when a waitress approached to ask us if we wanted anything to drink. I tried to open my mouth, but I froze up and was unable to speak.

“We’ll each have iced tea,” Donna said. After the waitress left, she leaned over and said, “Just keep it short and sweet. Speak from your throat, not your diaphragm. Here, let’s try a little experiment.” She handed me my glass of water. “Gargle with this.”

After I did as I was told, she said, “Try saying something from the spot in your throat where you just gargled.” When I did, my voice came out higher, softer and almost natural. “Very good, Anne. That’s your new voice.”

“Thanks,” I said shyly.

“What are you going to order?” Donna asked.

“I’m famished,” I said, getting a feel for my new voice. “A double order of chili sounds good.”

“Not if you want to maintain your figure,” Donna admonished me. “No self-respecting girl would order something like that for lunch. Why don’t you try the pasta salad?”

The waitress returned before I could argue with her. “Pasta salad,” I said reluctantly, surprising myself by putting a little hiss in each word.

“Show off,” Donna teased me after the waitress left. “You’re a fast study.”

“Somehow I get the feeling I’m not the first guy you’ve taught this too,” I said.

“And so perceptive,” Donna said, deftly changing the subject. “You are going to make such a wonderful secretary!”

“How will I know what to do tomorrow?” I asked nervously.

“All you have to remember is to report to human resources at eight o’clock. Everybody is expecting you.”

* * *

The next morning, I was filled with foreboding when I woke up before dawn. I tossed and turned until the six o’clock news came on the clock radio, informing me that it was going to be a perfect fall day in Chicago. With a sigh of resignation, I took off my nightgown and staggered into the bathroom.

An hour later, my hair styled and my makeup as good as I could get it, I returned to the bedroom and opened the door to the walk-in closet. I had only glanced into it the day before, and I was overwhelmed by the selection of skirts, tops, jackets and dresses that hung before me. The perimeter of the floor was covered with shoeboxes full high heels in various styles and colors, and a cubby by the door was teeming with scarves and sweaters. I was floundering with indecision when I spied an envelope pinned to one of the jackets. “Open me on your first day” was written in bold letters, and I tore it open to find this note:

Dear Anne,

Come out of the closet, working girl! I just know you will make an excellent secretary if you keep that pretty little head of yours.

Having trouble deciding what to wear? To solve your daily dilemma on your first day, I have selected your outfit for you: a pink top, plaid skirt and navy blue jacket will go well with the black heels that you broke in yesterday. Why not try accessorizing your ensemble with a pretty scarf, and don’t forget your jewelry! Nude pantyhose and white lingerie can be found in your drawers.

Good luck, sweetheart! Remember, you are not an executive any more. Just do as you’re told, smile sweetly, and the year will go by before you know it!

Donna

Sure enough, the skirt, top and jacket were pulled to one side, with a colorful scarf wrapped around the hangers. In a trance, I took them down and tossed them onto the bed. While I fished around in the drawers for my panties, bra, slip and stockings, I felt myself becoming aroused once again.

During my lunch with Donna, I had obliquely brought up my concerns about what was happening to me. “I’m worried about the hormones,” I told her.

“So far, you’ve only had one shot. That’s not enough to cause anything permanent,” she assured me.

“Will I have to take any more?”

“Only if you’re bad.”

“What happens if I keep taking them?”

“Well, if you take enough of them, there could be some irreversible changes.”

“You mean like turning me into a girl?” I asked her nervously.

“Not completely.”

“What will the shot you gave me yesterday do to me?”

“Slow you down a bit, make you a little more docile. Let me know if you want another one.”

Her words were ringing in my ears as I put on my bra and panties. This time, I tried tucking my penis between my legs, and it stayed there when my panties were pulled up tight. Once again, I watched my reflection in the mirror as the breast forms transformed me into a sexy girl in her bra and panties. After I stepped into my slip, the lacy hem swirled seductively around my knees as I dropped the pink top over my head and shook my curly hair free from its princess collar. I decided to throw caution to the wind and put on my nylons before my skirt, and as I watched the girl in the mirror slowly easing her stockings up her legs, I felt my contorted penis struggling against its silken restraints. Once I tugged my pantyhose up over my waist, all I felt was a dull ache in my panties as it settled into captivity. I stepped into my skirt, zipped it up, fussed with my slip and top like I had been doing it all my life, and even figured out how to tie my scarf into a loose bow before putting on my jacket. I remembered to put on my new woman’s wristwatch, and a glance at it told me that I had better get moving if I was going to catch my bus. My purse was still loaded from yesterday, so I slipped on my heels, checked to make sure my keys were in my purse, and headed out the door.

The weatherman was right: it was a fine autumn day, with just a hint of winter in the air, and I was glad I was wearing stockings when I passed a woman on the sidewalk whose bare legs looked almost purple. The walk to the bus stop took me five minutes, and already my feet were on fire. I looked nervously at the people standing in line, but nobody paid any attention to me. Donna had assured me that if I acted like a normal girl and didn’t call attention to myself, my true gender would be undetectable to strangers, and so far she seemed to be right.

I got on the crowded bus and found a seat next to a man with his face buried in the Tribune. I stared straight ahead and as we lurched along, it was hard to believe that not long ago I had commuted to the office in my company car. Sadly, I reached into my purse and extracted Donna’s letter. “Good luck, sweetheart! Remember, you are not an executive any more. Just do as you’re told, smile sweetly, and the year will go by before you know it!” A whole year like this…right now, all I wished was that my bus would swerve out of control and plunge into the Chicago River to put me out of my misery.

At a few minutes before eight, I stepped off my bus and walked hesitantly into the building where I had spent the past fifteen years slowly climbing the corporate ladder. My only hope was that no one would recognize me, but it was not to be. As soon as I got on an elevator, a woman’s voice said, “Omigod, it’s Mr. Thrope!” I didn’t know her, but two guys in marketing I used to have lunch with occasionally started poking each other and giggling uncontrollably. I just stood there, red in the face, until we got to the floor for Human Resources. “Have a nice day, Ms. Thrope!” the woman called out as I stepped off the elevator to peals of hysterical laughter.

It went downhill from there. The receptionist in Human Resources treated me like an alien from outer space, and the officious Assistant Director sat me down in his cramped little office and gave me the facts of life about my new status. He seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out the dress code for females in my company handbook, and shared with me a memorandum which had gone out to everyone at corporate headquarters, informing them of my punishment and admonishing them to treat me the same as any other entry level employee. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, the Assistant Director had his secretary take me on a familiarization tour of my new work areas: the file room, the supply room, the kitchen where I would go to fetch coffee, and finally the ladies room. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, she escorted me into my old department and introduced me to the man who had replaced me as vice president. He wished me well with undisguised contempt, and then I was paraded past my gaping former colleagues and taken to my new cubicle.

I barely had time to put down my purse before the work started piling up: reports to be typed, travel schedules to be arranged, files to be sorted, and miscellaneous errands to be run for the three junior executives I’d been assigned to work for. The first time one of them summoned me into his office to pick up some files, I banged my knee on a filing cabinet and snagged my pantyhose. By the time I was able to scoot out for a new pair during my lunch break, I had a run going clear up my leg, and after paying for my nylons I barely had enough money to buy some cottage cheese to eat at my desk. I thought I was getting the hang of things until I messed up a phone message and got bawled out like a five year old by the executive on the other end of the line, and when I finally had to use the ladies room, I was openly scorned by every woman who saw me.

The only good thing about being a secretary is when the clock strikes five, you’re out of there. More snickers on the ride down in the elevator, a sudden drizzle as I waited for my bus, and wet, aching feet all added to my misery, and by the time I finally dragged my sorry ass back to my little apartment, I had made my decision: tomorrow I would renege on the Consent Decree and take my punishment like a man. One day as a working woman was enough to last me for a lifetime.

By morning, I chickened out, put on a dress and rode the bus to work again. So here I sit, typing this story while the work piles up around me. The only thing they can’t do to me is fire me: that would be a breach of the Consent Decree. I suppose if I get too ditzy, Donna will come looking for me with her dart gun. The very idea is enough to start a party in my panties.

By the author of Skylord
http://snurl.com/skylord

As I write these memoirs, my deeply tanned legs are stretched out before me on a lounge chair on my lanai. My pink toenails provide a nice contrast to the aquamarine sea visible in the distance, framed by swaying palm trees on golden sands. I brush a strand of hair from my forehead, and tug my sundress a few inches towards my knees.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe that a mere month ago, I was a hunted man with a price on his head. How I got from there to here would be a front-page story on every newspaper in America, and would land me in jail if it became known to the authorities. Which explains why I intend to seal these memoirs in bottle and throw them into the sea, for discovery long after I have lived out my life as a beautiful, wealthy woman.

* * *

It all began when Oregon legalized marijuana in 2014. A recent graduate of Oregon State, I landed a job in IT with a start-up which applied for one of the licenses to sell marijuana, and at first it seemed like a legitimate business. However, before long it became clear to me that my employers had been growing and distributing marijuana illegally for years, and their prospects of securing a license became dim after an expose on KOIN, the Portland affiliate of CBS.

Unfortunately, shortly after the negative news story on my company came out, I was observed by our Director of Security having lunch with a college friend, who happened to be an intern at KOIN. He came to the wrong conclusion that I was a snitch, which to the company’s owners justified the death sentence. I learned this by chance when I was working late one night (from my home, thank God) and after I came across some worrying email traffic, I penetrated the CEO’s email address and quickly learned my intended fate: I was to be assassinated the next morning while waiting for my TriMet train!

Stunned at the realization that I had less than twelve hours to live, I tried to survey my options. At first I thought about going straight to the police or the FBI, but I quickly realized that would only confirm my employers’ suspicions and mark me for death sooner or later. No, I had to get far away fast, and with that realization, the germ of an idea came into my mind: these were bad people who had made millions of dollars illegally pushing drugs, so why not relieve them of some of it on my way out the door? It didn’t take me long to hack into their bank accounts, which sure enough I found to be loaded with cash, waiting to be laundered. With a few keystrokes, I transferred three million dollars into my own bank account.

So I’d be rich, if I could afford to spend it. It was early spring, and a news story I’d seen that morning popped into my head: hiker disappears on Mount Hood, intensive search underway. Up on the mountain, it was still winter, with weather conditions that could change drastically from minute to minute, feet of snow still on the ground, and another snowstorm on the way. After a few moments of thought, I tapped out an email to my boss, informing him that I’d decided to take the next day off for a hike on Mount Hood.

One final email before I packed my hiking gear into my car: I told my friend at KOIN to watch his back! Then I loaded up my Subaru and pulled away from my apartment a few minutes after midnight. I drove to Government Camp, paid for a motel room with my credit card, and spent a restless few hours waiting till morning. After breakfast at a local café, again paid for with my credit card, I walked over to the local branch of my bank and shocked the branch manager by withdrawing three million dollars in hundreds. I took my time jamming the bills into an oversized backpack, which weighed over 60 pounds by the time it was full, and headed for the mountain.

I parked my Subaru at the trailhead for a climb that was notoriously treacherous, heaved my backpack onto my back, smashed my cellphone and threw the bits into a ravine, and did the exact opposite of what my pursuers and the authorities would expect: I started hiking down off the mountain. It was a lovely spring day, and I hardly felt the burden on my back as I made my way down towards the road which led to the freeway. When I got close to the highway, I pulled a ski cap low over my ears and forehead, and pulled the collar on my jacket over my chin. With my wraparound sunglasses, my facial features were now extinguished. I stuck out my thumb, and before long I was sitting beside the friendly driver of a logging truck, bound for Idaho.

* * *

Without fake ID, leaving the United States was out of the question, but it’s a big country. As we rolled east, I closed my eyes, and while pretending to sleep to avoid conversation with the driver, I tried to think of the safest way to set myself up with a new identity. Faking my death had been the easy part: when I did not come off the mountain and my car was found at the trailhead, a massive search would undoubtedly ensue, and when no trace was found of me, I’d be chalked up as just another luckless hiker who’d been caught in the blizzard that was bearing down on the Cascades. It wasn’t uncommon for bodies to simply vanish, to be found years later when the snowpack melted.

No, the bigger problem was how to disappear with three million dollars and never be found. As fate would have it, both of my parents had predeceased me in separate automobile accidents, and my only sibling – a sister – had gone bad and run off with a creep somewhere in California. I had a few college friends who might mourn me briefly, but no responsibilities and no ties to speak of.

Where shall I live and who shall I be? Could I make myself unrecognizable and pass through life as a totally different person? Keeping alive and staying out of jail – for surely it was a crime to steal three million dollars, even from drug dealers – depended on it.

* * *

Two days and many trucks later, I found myself on the outskirts of Chicago. I hitched a ride into the city with a traveling salesman, and paid cash for a dreary room at a no-tell motel near O’Hare airport. After sleeping for fifteen hours, I walked to an all-night diner – it was almost dawn – and bought a Chicago Tribune to read while I waited for my bacon and eggs. Sure enough, buried deep in the first section I found this article:

MANHUNT CONTINUES FOR MISSING HIKER

PORTLAND – The U.S. Forest Service and the Oregon State Police have resumed their search for XXXX XXXXXXXXX, who disappeared during a record-setting snowstorm while hiking on Mount Hood. The search was temporarily suspended during the height of the blizzard, which dumped over three feet of fresh snow on the already snow-packed mountain. XXXXXXXX’s car was found at a trailhead leading to a popular hiking trail two days ago, and his cellphone has presumably run down. Volunteers from Sandy and Government Camp are assisting in the manhunt.

I felt badly about the volunteers, and the expenses that the government must be running up, but these feelings quickly vanished when I came across another, shocking story:

NO CLUES IN MURDER OF KOIN INTERN

PORTLAND – Police remain baffled by the cold-blooded killing of Andrew Moffatt, a twenty-two year old intern at KOIN who was shot to death in broad daylight two days ago when he walked out of the station’s broadcast studio in downtown Portland. Moffatt, who was on his way to pick up coffee for fellow staffers, was shot five times in the back, and died on the sidewalk before an ambulance could arrive.

My hands were shaking as I dropped the newspaper. Poor Andy! He didn’t even know about the drug dealers who were after me, and now he was dead. Why couldn’t I have given him a better warning? What did I say to him when I tried to tip him off? “Andy, watch your back, some bad people may be out to get you.” When the cops got ahold of that, would they connect the dots with my disappearance and speculate that I’d been murdered too? My whole life was turning into a nightmare!

One thing was certain: the people who gunned down Andy were looking for me, and if I was foolish enough to go back to Portland to tell the police what I knew, they’d undoubtedly kill me too. There was no choice for me now but to lose myself forever, and with three million dollars in cash I had the means to do it, if only I could figure out how to hide in plain sight for the rest of my life….

My breakfast came, and as I listlessly played with my scrambled eggs, another article in the Tribune caught my eye. It was about Caitlyn Jenner, and how her revelations about her gender transition had become a topic of national conversation. It was an Aha moment: why couldn’t I turn myself into a girl? That was the last thing my killers would suspect, and unbeknownst to them, or anybody else who knew me, I already had some practice: my older sister used to dress me up in her clothes when we were kids, and after she ran off with her loser boyfriend, I used to fool around in her closet when nobody was around. I was fascinated by the way I looked in a dress or skirt, and I loved putting on her nylons, which was a strange turn-on for me….

Until I went off to college, I’d never gone outside the house as a girl. For my first two years, roommates made it impossible for me to even think about crossdressing, but my last two years I lived alone in a small apartment, and I found myself tempted to get back into it. By then my sister had disappeared, and when my mother asked me to help her clear out her closet while I was home for summer break, I surreptitiously stashed a small wardrobe including lingerie and tights, and even some of her makeup, in a large box which I hid until it was time for me to go back to college.

I never shared my secret with anyone, which was easy since I made very few friends. A geek majoring in computer science, I pretty much kept to myself, and the few girls who agreed to go out with me always seemed to have other plans when I asked them out again. So I’d get my kicks dressing up in my sister’s clothes, although I rarely left my apartment like that, and I wondered if I’d really be able to pass as a woman? I was lucky with my physique: 5’8” tall, a mere 145 pounds, a full head of long brown hair and skinny arms and shoulders. Instinctively, I pushed my breakfast plate away as I began to think: you’ll have to lose at least ten pounds to be truly believable as a girl, I told myself, and you’ll have to start putting together a look.

You must think I’d lost my mind. Fooling around in girl’s clothes in my spare time was one thing, but did I really want to live the rest of my life as a woman? Did I even think that I could fool people if I put on some makeup and wore a dress? Maybe not, but at that point, the hassles and humiliation of trying to turn myself into a girl paled in comparison to the fate which awaited me as a man. It might not be the life I wanted, but I’d be alive, and with three million dollars to play with, I could afford a life of luxury if I was able to complete my transformation.

I had a lot of work to do, and for the moment, my flophouse motel would serve as my base of operations. I was a little concerned about leaving my backpack stuffed with millions of dollars in the room, but that was a risk I’d have to take. I removed a few thousand dollars and jammed the backpack between the dust bunnies and cobwebs under the sagging bed. Only a desperate thief would even think about looking there….

I walked a few blocks to the Blue Line, and assembled my thoughts on the way into downtown Chicago. My first stop would be at a large drugstore, then I’d try to find an Internet café, before I could start thinking about hair, clothes and makeup. The train pulled in to the Washington Street station, and I soon found a Walgreens, where I purchased a prepaid Visa credit card in the amount of $500 and a throwaway cellphone.

Then it was off to a FEDEX office store, where I hunkered down at a personal computer and swiped my new Visa card. After a quick scan of the Portland headlines – the hunt for the missing hiker on Mount Hood had been suspended again after another blizzard moved in – I created a new Internet address for myself using an androgynous name: Kim Drake, screenname [email protected]. Next, I scanned the Craigslist pages for Chicago, looking for the cheapest reliable used car that I could find. I spotted a 2007 Ford Focus SE Sedan, asking price $1,950, for sale by owner in Elmwood Park. I sent a message, using my new email address, then turned my attention to creating a fake Illinois driver’s license.

I’m ashamed to say it didn’t take me long. Downloading a sample from the DMV website, I used it as a template, duplicating the multiple typescripts with various fonts, inventing a date of birth and address for Kimberly Drake, sex female, finding a copy of the state seal, uploading an old picture of me with long hair that looked just girly enough, and printing the whole thing on some watermarked paper. Once I signed it in a girlish hand, sealed it between two sheets of laminate and trimmed the edges, it would fool anyone on visual inspection, although it didn’t have a bar code or other security features so it would be useless at an airport. One final touch: a dab of whiteout over the letters FE, to be brushed off later….

Before I left, I checked for email messages at my new account. The owner of the Ford Focus had replied, leaving her phone number and asking me if I was still interested. I called her with my new cellphone immediately, and we made arrangements to meet at a strip mall near her home in half an hour. I flagged down a taxi to Elmwood Park, and killed some time browsing at a Payless shoe store until she showed up with her boyfriend, who was driving another car.
They both looked like meth addicts, and under ordinary circumstances I wouldn’t have had anything to do with them. After a cursory inspection of the beat up Ford, I asked them if they had the pink slip, and the lie which the boyfriend stammered about being unable to find it was so transparent that I was certain that the car was stolen. That didn’t matter to me: my plans were to take it on a one way trip out of Illinois, as soon as possible. The boyfriend launched into a sales pitch, but I cut him off when I handed him two thousand dollars in cash and told them to keep the change. Before they could think of anything else to say, I took the keys and drove off.

Back to my crappy motel, where I parked the car and returned to my room. My stolen millions were still under the bed. I called the front desk to tell them I was checking out, threw my backpack in the trunk and headed for the freeway.

* * *

I drove south, stopping only for gas, for over a thousand miles before I finally pulled over at a luxury hotel on Tampa Bay. No more fleabag motels for me: hotels like this required identification, and my new driver’s license passed easily. Would its owner be able to pass as easily as a woman? Tomorrow would tell, but tonight I spent my last night as a man, drinking a little too much red wine with my steak dinner before I staggered off to bed.

I slept in the next morning, arising just before noon. After a light breakfast, I drove my beater to a nearby “mile of cars” and parked it on the street. With my backpack on my back, I surveyed the lots of the luxury car dealers before I found myself drawn to an Audi S5 convertible. I was inspecting the sticker when a car salesman approached me, probably assuming that I was a kid hitchhiking back to college. Before he could run me off, I told him I wanted to take it for a test drive. He started to laugh, until I told him that I was prepared to pay cash if he could have the car prepped and ready to drive off the lot in an hour. The test drive was a formality – what a machine! We haggled a bit on price, I showed him my fake driver’s license, the paperwork was completed in record time and I drove off the lot with the top down.

My first stop was another Walgreens, where I loaded up on prepaid Visa cards and took the first tentative step in my transformation: an old fashioned double edge razor with plenty of blades, and a mangroomer with a long handle so I could take the hair off my back. I returned to my hotel, and while the mangroomer was charging up, I filled the bathtub with hot suds and patiently shaved my arms, legs and chest. It was a nasty process, and I cut myself several times, but when I was finished, my body was already looking more feminine, and it felt that way too after I smoothed my tender skin with the hotel’s body crème. After I took care of my back with the mangroomer, I dressed myself as a man for the last time, and drove my new Audi to a nearby outlet mall.

I’d made a shopping list at breakfast that morning. If I was going to live as a woman, I was determined to be as pretty as possible, and to try to get away with the same undergarments that real women wore. It was April in South Florida, and soon it would be hotter than hell, and I wasn’t about to bind myself and pad myself for the sake of a few inches. I had a girlish waste, and slim arms and legs, and I’d count on them to help me cross the bar.

I’ve kept my list, and it brings back bittersweet memories every time I look at it. My success in avoiding assassination and imprisonment would come at the price of my manhood:

Skirts
Tops
Sundresses
Shorts or capris
Sandals
Heels and/or flats
Purses
Wallet
Panties
Wonderbras
Pantyhose
Bling: clip earrings, rings, necklaces, watch
Nightgown
Robe, slippers
Makeup: lip gloss, eye liner, eye shadow, brow pencil, blush, foundation and powder
Moisturizer
Nail polish
Cologne
Hairbrush

I scratched pantyhose off my list: this was Florida, and this was for real, not some crossdresser’s fantasy. It was exhausting just thinking about the challenges which lay ahead, but the alternative was an early grave. The sooner I buried the man that I was, and started thinking of myself as a woman, the better my chances of survival. Fortunately, from my days as a closet crossdresser I knew my sizes (the same as my sister’s) so there was no mystery involved. The first step would be the hardest.

* * *

Hours later, I collapsed onto the bed of my hotel room after dragging dozens of shopping bags from my car. What an ordeal! Two skirts and one pair of skimmer shorts, three tops, two sundresses, a couple of wonderbras, several packs of panties, a slip, some cute jeweled sandals, white espadrilles, two pair of strappy heels, three purses, a small pile of fashion jewelry from Claire’s, and a darling nightgown with spaghetti straps and a matching robe. To each of the sales clerks, I’d explained that I was shopping for presents for my girlfriend, and except for the shoe store, they might have believed me. Getting the cosmetics was not as embarrassing as I feared: at a nearby WalMart, I filled a basket with everything I needed and waited for an opening at the self-service checkout line. I got my quota of embarrassment at my last stop: a Supercuts, where I asked the girl to try to recreate the boyish bob that Caitlyn Jenner styled when she was still Bruce…I’m sure the girl saw right through me, but she played along, and every time she asked me a question about which way to go, I went with the more feminine alternative.

From now on, I told myself, it’ll be a lot easier, since you’ll be shopping for yourself as a girl. With a sign of resignation, I pulled the tags off a skirt and top, tore off my guy clothes, and went into the bathroom to shave my face and legs again. After a long, hot bubble bath, I was ready to start in on my makeup. I used to be pretty good at this, using my sister’s hand-me-downs, and I was pleasantly surprised by the natural look I was creating, using the bare minimum of each product.

After I’d filed and polished my nails, I returned to the bedroom to snap on a Wonderbra, which instantly gave me the illusion of female breasts. Next, I slid on a pair of panties, and when I did, for the first time I felt a trace of arousal. Oh oh….down boy, I said to myself as I stepped into my skirt, a billowy confection of eyelet lace which felt delightful against my legs. Those forbidden feelings intensified…not now! I scolded myself while I dropped my sleeveless top over my head, and the wicked sensations momentarily eased while I busied myself tying a bow behind my back. Then I stepped into my espadrilles, which made my feet look so cute!

A glance at myself in the mirror on the back of the closet door took my breath away. For the first time in my life, I liked what I saw…this wasn’t me fooling around in my sister’s clothes, this was the woman I was going to become, living in her soft skin for the rest of my life, in pretty skirts and dresses like this…I didn’t want it to happen, but my body slowly surrendered to a surprise orgasm, flooding my new panties as I whimpered in ecstasy. The feelings were so sweet, and so strong, like nothing I’d ever experienced, and I just gave in to them and let myself ride a wave of intense, exquisite pleasure that went on and on and on….

Then it was over, and I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. Is this what I could expect every time I got dressed in the morning? Surely not – over time, putting on women’s clothing would become second nature to me, otherwise my body would wear itself out! Too bad, I thought ruefully….in truth, I hadn’t had an orgasm in a long time, and a lot of pent-up testosterone just went out of me. Good thing I had plenty of panties! I lifted up my skirt, took off my sodden panties, wiped myself down with a bath towel and put on a fresh pair. This time, my penis tucked obediently between my legs, and I hoped it would behave itself – for a while.

* * *

That afternoon, I went on some errands, my first real outing as a woman. In college, I’d walked around the block a few times after dark, but I was always terrified and never encountered anyone. As a precaution in case I was stopped for some traffic infraction or had an accident, I tucked my real driver’s license in an inside pocket of my new women’s wallet, with my fake license displayed on the outside. And in case I was mugged and lost my purse, I stuck an extra hotel key inside one of my shoes – a girl couldn’t be too careful! I drove carefully, shielding my eyes as I added yet another item to my growing shopping list: sunglasses. It was amazing how many little things a woman needed just to get through the day, and by the time I got back to the hotel, I was beat.

So I stripped off my skirt, top and lingerie and treated myself to another bubble bath. Heaven! After I reapplied my makeup, I decided to put on one of my new sundresses. It was black, with little yarnbows on the shoulders, and it was unlined so I was glad I’d bought a slip to wear under it, which felt sinfully delicious against my skin. After I dropped my dress over my head and strapped on my new heels – that took some getting used to - I put all my girl stuff in a different purse which matched my dress, slung it over my shoulder and walked to the hotel restaurant, a little wobbly in my new heels.

A single woman alone at a fancy restaurant is an oddity, but fortunately I had a very friendly waiter, a young man about my age who was terribly good-looking. He smiled at me when I was seated at one of his tables, and produced my menu with a flourish. What followed was one of the most memorable nights of my life.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that so far there has not been a word of dialogue in these memoirs. That’s not entirely by accident: when I went on the lam, I kept my mouth shut so as not to reveal my identity, and after I made the jump from boy to girl, I’d been very cautious about speaking to anyone, for fear that my voice would be too deep and might give me away.

Anyway Randy – my waiter’s name, according to the tag on his uniform – was naturally charming, and when he told me how much he liked my dress, I started to giggle. Giggle like a girl.

“What’s so funny?”

“I got it at the outlets today for $19.” My female voice came naturally, very soft and sweet, and I started to relax.

“I’ve finally found the perfect girl.”

“Hardly,” I said. What an understatement! I might look, and sound, like a girl, but under my $19 dress….

“No, I mean it. Pretty, smart and sensible. Where have you been all my life?”

Did he really think I was pretty as a girl? “You’re making me blush.”

“Please don’t! It’ll hide your freckles, which I find irresistible.”

My God, he was flirting with me! “You do?”

“Of course. What can I bring you to drink?”

What did a woman drink? “How about a glass of your house Chardonnay?”

“Coming right up.” I tried to compose myself after he left. I’d never been attracted to a man in my life, and now, on my first day as a woman, I felt my pulse racing. When he returned with my glass of wine, I felt a little spike in my panties too.

“Thanks.” I took a sip while he stood patiently beside my table. “This is lovely.”

“The swordfish is excellent tonight.”

“Sold. Can I start with a Caesar salad?”

“Surely. Excellent choice.” He left me to my wine, and I felt a little buzz as it went to my head.

By the time Randy returned with my salad, my glass was almost empty. “So what’s a pretty girl doing here all alone tonight?” he asked.

“Getting quietly bombed. Another glass of your lovely Chardonnay please.”

“Coming right up. Only you have to tell me more when I come back.” Tell him what? That I was really a man? That I was a fugitive, with drug dealers on my tail and millions of dollars in stolen cash in my room? Or how about this: “Do you make it with girls who are really boys?” That would be a show-stopper, all right…maybe he was really gay, and he’d seen through my disguise? Or maybe he was just a straight guy who had a little thing for chicks with dicks?

My Caesar salad was delicious, and as I sipped the remains of my first glass of wine, I allowed myself to revel in my good fortune: I was alive, in a warm, sunny place, with all the money I’d ever need. And I’d turned myself into a girl, a pretty girl who men like Randy found attractive. Still, it was only half a life, and it was going to be a very lonely existence, unless I could find someone to confide in. Was Randy that person? I’d only known him five minutes, and already I was thinking about confiding my innermost secrets to him! What kind of a silly little girl was I turning myself into?

Randy returned with my Chardonnay, and I decided to take a direct approach. No use stringing him along if he was going to freak out when he found out I was a guy. Nobody in the restaurant knew who I was, and I was checking out of the hotel tomorrow, so why not go for it? After all the traumas I’d been through over the past week, what was one more? No doubt the wine was getting to me.

“So Randy,” I asked before he could say anything, “have you noticed anything…special about me?”

“Hmmm…” he said as he stood back and framed my face with his hands. “You have beautiful blue eyes, cute hair, those freckles I’ve already mentioned, and the first thing I noticed when you walked in are those killer legs. Other than that, you’re a dog,” he smiled.

I felt that spike in my panties again! “If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect that you’re trying to get into my panties tonight.”

“She’s onto me,” he said as he watched me sip my Chardonnay.

“And what if you were to find a secret in those panties?” I looked up at him and studied his face, which had a blank expression. He was working it out…then he broke into a shy smile, and he leaned over and whispered, “If you’re trying to tell me what I think you’re trying to tell me, I think I want to find out.”

* * *

The rest of that evening is a blur, until Randy knocked on the door of my hotel room. I’d taken off my dress and put on my sexy new nightgown, and when Randy came in, I did a nervous twirl for him. “Do you like what you see?” I asked him.

“I want to see your secret,” he said before he lifted my chin and gave me a little kiss.

“In due time,” I answered after I curled up on the bed.

“So have you ever made it with a girl like me?”

“No, never. But since we’re sharing secrets, can I tell you one of mine?”

“Sure.”

“Sometimes I wonder what it would be like…I mean sometimes I think about how I’d look…shit, why is this so hard to say?”

“You wonder what it would be like to dress up as a girl. Believe me, I get it.” He was still standing next to the bed, and I framed his face with my hands, like he’d done to me at the restaurant. “Well, let’s see…you’ve got a cute face, your nose isn’t too big, and with a little makeup I think you’d make a pretty girl. But you’re so tall! Big and strong doesn’t translate into sugar and spice….”

“That’s what I was afraid of. You must think I’m kinda creepy.”

I patted the bed next to me and he sat down awkwardly. “No, I think you’re gorgeous.” I lifted his chin and returned his kiss. It felt nice…no, it felt great, and my penis was raging in my panties. I reached down and felt him through his trousers, and he was hard as a rock. One thing led to another, and before long I had him undressed, and he was tugging my panties down to my knees. I can’t remember who started it, but soon we were kissing each other’s penises, and the sensation of tasting his pre-cum while he sucked on me was like nothing I’d ever experienced, sheer, utter lust that consumed us both as our arousal peaked and we came simultaneously in each other’s mouths, wicked orgasms that felt – and tasted – so damn good!

We lay there together in each other’s arms for quite some time, neither of us saying a word, until Randy finally spoke. “Baby, that was the best I’ve ever had. I guess this makes me gay,” he added.

“Not necessarily. I mean, you definitely just made it with a guy, but I’m a girl too, so I’m not feeling especially gay at the moment. More like a woman who just gave her first blowjob, and kinda liked it. Of course, the fact that you gave me one too made it pretty amazing.”

“So what you’re saying is, we’re both fucked up.”

“Exactly.” He kissed me, a deep, romantic kiss that started me stirring again, and I felt him stiffening too, and we stroked each other for a while until we were both hard again. At first I thought he was going to go down on me again, until he pulled a condom out of his pants pocket on the floor. “This will be a night of firsts,” I said.

“You mean you’ve never made it with a guy before?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve never made it with anybody before.”

“Wow, a virgin. And my first ladyboy. How do you want it?”

“Huh?”

“What position? Missionary? Doggie style? Reverse cowgirl?”

“Goodness…are you sure I’m your first?”

“You’re my first boy. Here, stand up and lean over the bed.” I did as I was told, and he gently pushed me down and stood behind me. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, sensing my apprehension. I felt his penis probing my ass cheeks (which tickled) then he bore down and inserted the tip inside me. I gasped at the shock of penetration, it hurt! But he held me down by the shoulders and kept on driving, in and then out, a bit deeper each time, and I opened my legs a little more and bent my knees as I tried to rock with his rhythm, in and out, in and out, faster and faster until I could sense that he was getting ready to cum. I don’t know when the pain turned to pleasure, but by the time he was ready, I was in a fit of ecstasy from the raw, pure pleasure of having a man inside me, and then he reached around and grabbed my quivering cock, which he stroked tenderly while he exploded inside me, which in turn made me cum too, a mind-bending orgasm that I felt down to my toes as he continued to slide in and out of me, until we were both spent, and we collapsed onto the pool of semen on my bed.

We lay that way forever, it seemed, until Randy’s breathing returned to normal and he rolled off me. “Wow,” was all he said.

“Was it good for you too?”

“Are you kidding? That was the best I’ve ever had. Even if it means I’m gay.”

“But you’re not. Because I’m a girl. Which makes you bi, I guess. And me too.”

“Bi. I like that. Yeah, I like that a lot.”

* * *

After Randy got dressed and left, I tossed and turned for a long time. I’d just had sex, amazing sex, with a man. And I loved it! It was hard to believe that less than 24 hours ago, I didn’t own a stitch of women’s clothing, and now I was not only living as a woman full time, but I’d just had fantastic sex as a woman, in a way I’d never experienced as a man. All of my troubles back in Oregon seemed far, far away….

The next morning, after shaving my legs again in another long, lazy bubble bath (I was becoming addicted) I put on my makeup and dressed myself in my other new sundress, which felt light and lovely against my freshly shaved skin.

I wondered if Randy would be serving breakfast in the restaurant? He was nowhere to be seen, and it occurred to me that I was probably going to be just another one night stand for him, one of his many conquests, with a little twist in my tail. Which was okay, I had no complaints! Although I wished I could see him again to say goodbye. I’d given him my new email address and cellphone number, but chances are he’d tossed them after he left me, probably feeling a little sheepish about making it with a Tgirl, which is what I was. Oh well….

One of my acquisitions when I went out yesterday was a good woman’s suitcase, and I packed it full with my new clothes, shoes, purses, etc. After I did an express checkout over the phone, I walked out of the room where I’d become a woman, tugging my suitcase behind me with my backpack on top of it, all of my men’s clothing already tossed into a hotel dumpster. It was time to get on with my new life.

To be continued….

Missty Memories

© 2016 by Nom de Plume

I’m told that when I was two or three, my mother dressed me as a girl and took me trick-or-treating with my older sister on Halloween, but I have no recollection of the event.

* * *

Fast forward ten years, when I was on the brink of puberty. For some reason which I will never understand, I developed a fixation on trying on my mother’s high heels. One night, when she was out playing bridge, my father was out of town and my sister was off somewhere, I snuck into her closet and opened one of her shoe boxes – she kept her shoes in boxes piled up in neat rows on the floor. I tried slipping one of her heels on, but it didn’t fit! So I opened another box, and another and another, with the same result every time: my twelve year old feet were too big for her shoes!

Then, an inspiration came to me: didn’t she always wear her shoes with nylon stockings? Maybe, if I put one of them on, I might fit into her shoes? I fished one out of a dresser drawer, and tugged it halfway up my leg. Then I tried to step into one of her shoes, and like magic, my silky foot slid right in. Another stocking, and I was taking my first tentative steps in high heels. It was the beginning of a lifelong, secret journey into the world of femininity.

There have been many detours along the way. For the next several years, I had to confine my explorations to stolen moments when my parents and sister were out of the house. Then, one fateful Sunday morning, my parents loaded up the car to drive my sister to the airport, so she could fly halfway across the country to begin her freshman year at college. The airport was an hour’s drive away, which meant I’d have a good three hours to attempt something I’d been yearning to try: a head to toe transformation from boy to girl in my sister’s clothes!

As soon as the garage door rolled down, I walked into her bedroom. With trembling anticipation, I put on a pair of her cotton panties and one of her old bras, which I must have stuffed with tissues or something, and then I tugged on one of her girdles (girls and women wore them in those days) with clips on the bottom for nylon stockings (pantyhose had yet to be invented) which I tentatively rolled up my still-hairless legs. It took me forever to get the hang of it, but eventually both stockings were snug and tight, and I dropped a lacy white slip over my shoulders. From her closet, I selected a tight skirt and matching sweater, which fit me like they’d been made for me. Her shoes were too tight for me by then, but my mother’s closet yielded a pair of low heels which still fit, and then it was time to try on some of her makeup. But before I could get there, I lingered in front of a full-length mirror to admire my reflection.

From the neck down, I was a teenage girl in a cute skirt, heels and stockings, which felt so good, and so right…suddenly I was surprised by a strange, delightful sensation under my skirt, in my panties, which started slowly but kept coming, and I felt my penis beginning to throb in a way it never had before, a feeling of pure pleasure which stunned me. I knew enough about sex from what I’d read, and what I’d heard from other boys, to realize that I’d just had my first orgasm – in my sister’s clothes! Which seemed so wrong! What was I, some kind of pervert? My euphoria was replaced by feelings of shame and self-loathing, which lingered long after I tore off my skirt, sweater, shoes, stockings and lingerie, and put them carefully away (except for my soiled panties, which I buried in the bottom of the trash) lest my perversion be discovered by my parents and sister. For the first – but hardly the last – time, I vowed never again dress like a girl, and prayed that I’d be able to redeem myself somehow and live a normal life.

* * *

Fast forward another twenty years of normal, white bread manhood. A successful businessman, I’d climbed the ladder of success, my youthful flings with crossdressing almost forgotten. But not entirely: every scrap of literature, every movie like “Tootsie” or “Victor Victoria”, every news article featuring some bizarre female impersonator, had been salted away. Although she was buried deep within me, my inner woman was patiently waiting for her moment to reemerge, and when she did, she came out with a vengeance.

Once again, she had to wait until opportunity opened the door for her: after slogging it out in the corporate trenches, I landed a dream job with a fat expense account, which required me to spend a lot of lonely nights in luxury hotels. With nothing but time on my hands, I began to fantasize about what it would be like to dress myself up as a woman once again. This was in the days before the Internet, but there were other means for a resourceful lady to assemble a trousseau: does anyone remember those thick Sears catalogues, with page after page of sexy models wearing beautiful outfits? That’s how I bought my first dress.…

I got lucky with my shoes: one of the girls in the office (who had very big feet) used to change into comfortable flats every day, and when she quit on short notice, she left them behind in the hall closet. My wig? With Halloween approaching, I explained to the clerk at a wig store (with genuine embarrassment) that I needed one for a costume party. My teddy and slip were purchased a few days before Christmas (for the woman in my life!) and that’s how I acquired fashion jewelry and accessories too. That left makeup, the biggest challenge of all, which I solved rather ingeniously by presenting myself to the cashier at an all-night drug store with a basket full of cosmetics and a list written in a girlish hand (mine) explaining that the airline had lost my wife’s suitcase, including all her makeup, and she’d sent me to replace it!

Two nettlesome problems still bedeviled me: my legs were overgrown with hair, as were my arms and the backs of my hands. The solution to the first problem came to me when I read an article in the Sunday paper about a female impersonator who hid his hairy legs under two pairs of opaque tights (first white, then flesh colored) followed by whatever nylons went with his outfit. I tried it, and it worked like magic! As for my hands, a pair of long opera gloves, which would slide under the sleeves of my dress, did the trick.

Finally, on a dark winter’s night, I checked into one of my favorite five star hotels with an extra suitcase filled with all of my female acquisitions. After a long, hot bubble bath in fragrant suds, I wrapped myself in a plush terrycloth bathrobe (courtesy of the hotel) and began to experiment with makeup. What a comedy of errors! My eyes looked like a raccoon’s, my foundation caked on my dry face, and my bright red lipstick make me look like a hooker. Wiping it all off wasn’t so easy either (makeup removal pads finally took care of that problem) and eventually, by moisturizing my face first and using less of everything, over time I was able to create a presentable look. My first wig left a lot to be desired too, although it looked a lot better after I figured out how to style it with clips, scrunchies and yarn bows.

Back to that first night: as disappointing as my initial makeover was, I did look decidedly female from the neck up, and once I pulled on my two pairs of tights, my legs looked like a girl’s. What a delight it was to slip into my lingerie and stockings, and put on my first dress – my dress! My leftover shoes pinched my toes, but they fit okay, and when I surveyed the finished product in the mirror on the closet door, that same old sensation that I’d experienced the first time I ever did this, as a callow youth, came on with a rush, only this time I knew exactly what was happening to me. Once again, I lost myself to the throes of an exquisite orgasm, followed by the same feelings of shame and self-loathing, only less intense this time…not the orgasm, which felt as good or better than any I’d experienced during sexual intercourse, but rather the remorse, which quickly faded away.

For better or worse, I finally admitted to myself, I was what they used to refer to as a transvestite: a man who derived sexual pleasure and release from dressing as a woman. This was not going to define my life, but now that I had the means to do so, I could make it a sort of hobby, a harmless alternative to fooling around with women. Such were the rationalizations that propelled me along for the next several years, as I gradually became more accomplished in my self-taught feminization techniques, learning what styles looked best on me, perfecting my makeup, and eventually venturing outside my hotel rooms onto darkened streets, and then eventually into the light of day, to window shop or purchase a newspaper – the first time I did, the clerk said, “Thank you, ma’am,” which made my day. Limited as I was by the fact that I was wearing gloves and three pairs of hose, my activities were necessarily confined to the winter months, and there were more than a few embarrassing moments – like being called out on the street, “that’s a fucking man!” – which caused me to purge my entire supply of women’s clothing, more than once, and to vow never again to engage in such madness.

* * *

I should have been a double agent! All those overnight trips “packing for two” and nobody who knew me ever had a clue. Of course, my female paraphernalia was carefully squirreled away in hiding places which were never discovered, and my inner woman seemed satisfied by her part time status, or so I thought. Once again, opportunity knocked for her: I was offered a fantastic job in a big city on the other side of the country, and the job paid so well that I could afford to get myself a smart apartment downtown.

I think you can guess what happened next: after a long, lonely winter, glorious spring finally came, and all the girls I encountered in the street were happy to ditch their parkas and galoshes and start wearing cute, summery skirts and dresses. They were like butterflies coming out of their cocoons, and my inner woman wanted to join them! By then, I’d gained a lot of weight – too many burgers and beers with the boys – and my body hair remained a problem. Until I came up with the perfect solution, a sort of crossdresser’s weight and exercise routine: eat like a girl, shave like a swimmer, and hit the health club. When the weight started to disappear, I began to look and feel much better as a man, and my absence of body hair was kind of trendy in a metrosexual way. I caught a wave, and my inner woman rode it right along with me.

What a joy it was to finally be able to shave my legs, and to feel and see them in sheer nylon stockings! To be able to go shopping, as a woman, for women’s clothing – to actually get to try on a dress to see how it looked on me before I bought it! I can close my eyes and remember in vivid detail the way it felt to walk down a sunny boulevard in a sleeveless dress, passing by all the drones in their uncomfortable suits and wingtips – heaven! I took to wearing sunglasses so I could stare at people without them knowing it, to see if they were staring back at the man in a dress, and wonder of wonders, they weren’t! I was just another pretty woman making her way in the world…and yes, I was pretty, and I knew it, with a trim physique, a flattering hairstyle (a good wig makes all the difference) and a newfound confidence in my step.

The triumph of my inner woman coincided with the dawn of the world wide web, and the explosion of readily available information about men who dress as women was a revelation. No more trips to the library to thumb through card catalogues for topics related to “transvestism” and no more furtive visits to adult bookstores! I also began to “meet” kindred souls via chat rooms and Internet forums, finding many other men who were wrestling with their own inner women, and eventually even meeting some of them in person. This eventually led to the next step in my evolution, and it’s a long story….

* * *

I met a “girl” named Rachel on a crossdressers website, and we had a lot in common: her pictures were gorgeous, and she said she loved to go shopping and do mainstream stuff as a woman, as I did. Rachel lived in a city that I visited often on business, so I suggested that we get together (as girls) the next time I was in her town. She readily agreed, and after she assured me that she was “drop dead passable” as a woman, we set the date.

On the appointed evening, I dressed myself in a cute skirt and sweater and waited for Rachel to show up. She was very late, but finally I heard someone grunting outside my hotel room door, and “she” knocked. When I opened the door, there stood before me a sweating, strapping man juggling two suitcases and a garment bag, who apologized (in a deep, disk jockey’s voice) for being so late. Rachel disappeared into the bathroom, and for the next hour and a half I waited patiently in my room while “she” effected “her” transformation. When she finally emerged, the results were tragic: Rachel looked like a truck driver in drag, and my heart sank at the prospect of going out in public with her, since she would obviously be clocked by everyone we met, dragging me down with her. We made it as far as her car, when I finally screwed up my courage and said, “Time out. We can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’m sorry, this isn’t about you, it’s about me – my ego is just too fragile to go out with you.”

Of course, she was devastated. We slunk back to my hotel room, and I waited uncomfortably while she returned to the bathroom to turn herself back into a man. When he was finished, “Rick” sat down on the sofa and we began to talk. As horrible as he looked as a girl, he was extremely good-looking as a guy, and the burly physique which doomed him as a woman made him a very attractive man. We sat there and talked for hours, and I found myself becoming fascinated by him. What a life he’d led! After flunking out of one of the best universities in the country, he’d hitchhiked to New York, where he fell in with a young artist named Andy Warhol, and became one of his infamous boytoys…there was a lot of heavy drug use, and his parents had him institutionalized for a time, but after unscrambling his brains, he became a computer wizard and had an amazing career. But a bad marriage had wiped him out financially, his health went to hell, and he was flirting with crossdressing as a sort of escape.

When he finally got up to leave, I apologized once again for crapping out on him, and said, “You know Rick, if you ever feel like going out sometime, with you as the guy and me as the girl, I’d like that.” To this day, I don’t know why I said it, but to my surprise, he said he’d love to. So when I told him I was returning a few months later, he asked me out to dinner!

Try to imagine the thrill of getting dressed and putting on my makeup, for a date with a handsome man. He was such a gentleman – I think he even brought me flowers! He opened doors for me, asked me what I was going to have for dinner, and smoothly informed the waitress, “The lady will have….” So what if we were only at a neighborhood Applebees? I was living a dream, as we chatted like any other man and woman over dinner – he was such a fascinating conversationalist! When we left the restaurant, he took my hand, and I felt an electric shock throughout my body. Sitting in his car on the way back to my hotel, I never wanted that evening to end, and after he walked me to my door, I surprised him – and myself – by giving him a kiss.

Thus began my first love affair with a man. Rick, as it turned out, was impotent by then (too many drugs and psychiatric medicines) but we dated off and on for several years. It was almost like we were high school sweethearts, kissing and petting but never making love to each other – I was far too shy, and he was incapable of forcing the issue. His financial situation was becoming more and more dire, so I wound up paying for dinner most of the time (or should I say, my company paid, since I was traveling on an expense account) and one day we even went swimming together – I’ve found a fuzzy old picture of the two lovebirds by the hotel pool.

All good things must come to an end, although in Rick’s case it was heartbreaking. As his decline precipitated after two DUI arrests, it became more and more painful to witness his deterioration. In one of his last emails to me (I’ve saved them all) he told me that I was the best thing he still had going for him, and we made plans to meet at a fancy hotel, where I would fulfill one of my fantasies: ballroom dancing in a little black dress and high heels! But when I emailed him to confirm the date, he never responded. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I learned the awful news: Rick had committed suicide, gassing himself to death with exhaust fumes from his car. I learned this from another crossdresser who knew Rick, and knew that we were close. Such a tragic end to a wonderful, if deeply troubled, person!

* * *

It took me a long time to get over the death of Rick, but life goes on, as always. At least I didn’t have to blame myself: he was always happy when he was with me, but our moments together were a rare respite from his otherwise dismal existence. For a long time, I contented myself with making “girlfriends” of other crossdressers I met on the web, including in a few cases their amazingly supportive wives! I worked very hard on my biggest flaw – my voice – learning how to talk like a woman. But I missed having a man in my life, and eventually I started looking for another lover.

There is an endless variety of Internet dating sites, some catering to guys who dig chicks with dicks – I’ve always wondered why so many otherwise straight guys have a thing for girls like me, and it’s my theory that a lot of them are as turned on as I am about dressing in women’s clothing, but don’t have the balls to admit it or try it. But I digress: it didn’t take me long to find the man who took my virginity. Shall I tell you about him?

He was an air force pilot, training out of a base near me. We flirted online for a while, and eventually he asked me out. I was so excited! I can still remember what I wore for him: a clingy pink top, a full skirt with matching pink flowers, nude pantyhose and black skimmer flats.

He was nice looking, not as gorgeous as Rick, but very clean cut and respectable. He was a few inches shorter than me, and I was so glad I wore flats! His name was Ron, and he took me to a little Italian bistro a few blocks away. We sat at a table on the patio outside, and I noticed him studying the other customers while we waited for our pizza. At length he said, “I’ve been trying to figure out if anybody here realizes that you’re a guy, but nobody seems to notice.” Boom! After we enjoyed our dinner and a few glasses of wine, he walked me back to my place, and this time he took my hand…after I let him in, and poured us each another glass of wine, one thing led to another, and before I knew it I was in bed with him, my skirt pulled up and my panties and hose pulled down. He proceeded to go down on me, giving me a delightful blow job - my first in decades - and before he knew it, I came in his mouth! I was lost in ecstasy, and after I came down to earth, he marveled at how quick I was.

Then he asked me if I had a condom! I did, and I watched with alarm as he put it on and told me to put a pillow under my butt. I started to protest, but he was very much in command, and before I knew it I was on my back, my legs were behind my head and his penis was inside my ass. It hurt a little at first, but he was very good and he knew what he was doing, so I just let him have his way with me. He found his rhythm and his thrusting became deeper and deeper, and it felt so fucking good! I was becoming a woman, and I just closed my eyes and reveled in the moment. Soon he cried out, and I felt him pulsing inside me, and then it was over. “That felt so good it hurt,” he said. He left soon afterwards, leaving me to contemplate what just happened to me: I had sex with a man. Did this mean I was gay? No, it meant I was bisexual, right? A man who loved women, and a woman who loved men….

It wasn’t exactly a one night stand – we met again a few months later for a rematch, which was just as spectacular – but we weren’t exactly lovers either. That came later, when I finally met my soulmate, an older man who went to the same university as I did, who shares all my tastes in music and literature, and who delights in treating me like a lady. We’ve been going strong for several years now, and he’s taught me that sex for an older man is not only possible, it can be very exciting and very gratifying if the woman is fun-loving and creative. He lives a few hours away, so we can’t see each other that often, which makes it exciting to plan each rendezvous, and keeps things fresh between us. We’ve gone out many times, always starting with a delightful lunch or dinner, and a few glasses of excellent wine – he’s quite the connoisseur - at an intimate restaurant. Afterwards, in my bedroom or hotel room, we’ve never failed to bring each other to mind-bending orgasms, every time. And thanks to him, I finally got that chance to go ballroom dancing in my little black dress and high heels, the most romantic night of my life…but that’s a story for another day.

My Funny Androgyne

 

 © 2005 by Nom de Plume

 

What will Donna Mae Trix get her girlfriend for Valentine’s Day? Could a cruise be the cure for the wintertime blues? The continuing misadventures of Miss Anne Thrope, by the author of The Jessica Project.

 

* * *

 

Winter in Chicago is bad enough when you’re a businessman who can get away to Palm Beach or Palm Springs. When you have to put on a dress and ride the bus to your cubicle every day, you soon find out that nylons are no match for an Artic blast off Lake Michigan. For a working girl, winter in Chicago is almost unbearable. 

 

Almost. Having a man in my life, even if my special someone was a dominatrix masquerading as a man, was enough to put a spring in my step as I went through the week in my high heels. I lived for Friday nights, when Donna would squire me to dinner and a show before I took her to bed in my little apartment. The weekends were reserved for indoor sports: sleeping till noon, cooking for two, and multiple orgasms.  

 

I loved sex as a guy, but I loved it more as a woman. Just getting ready for a date was an erotic experience: deciding what outfit and lingerie to wear, soaking in a steaming hot bubble bath, smoothing moisturizing crá¨me over my tender body, styling my hair and putting on my makeup. On this particular occasion, I was meeting Donna at the same restaurant where she had rocked my world by showing up as a man, and just like then, she told me to “wear something special.” It was Valentine’s Day, and I wondered how she had ever gotten a reservation as I cut the tags off my new dress. 

 

My little black dress! When I spied it during my lunch hour, jammed into a FINAL CLEARANCE rack at Talbot’s, my heart jumped at the prospect of wearing something so pretty. Now, after slipping on a black teddy and a new pair of ultra-sheer black pantyhose, I was quivering in anticipation as I stepped into my dress. The velvet skirt kissed the tops of my shimmering knees, and the plunging neckline barely covered my bra straps. I could almost hear my tortured penis whimpering in my panties when I nudged my silky feet into a pair of black stilettos. 

 

When I tottered over to the full length mirror to survey the finished product, I was struck by how vulnerable I looked. With blonde hair curling down my bare neck, a hint of cleavage, a satin bow tied around my waist, gossamer legs and spiked heels, I would be easy prey without a man to protect me. How would Donna stand up to a mugger? I wondered as I fastened a velvet choker around my neck. Would she shoot him with her gun full of female hormones? 

 

* * *

After I handed my faux fur to the coat check girl at Lawry’s, I felt almost naked in my little black dress. Was it my imagination, or were heads turning throughout the restaurant as the maitre d’ escorted me to Donna’s table? There she was, looking smashing in a double-breasted navy blue blazer and gray flannel slacks. With her neatly trimmed beard and mustache, she looked like a sea captain as she got up from the table and kissed me on the cheek. She must have been wearing lifts in her Italian loafers, because even in my stilettos I had to stand tiptoe to kiss her back.

 

We were seated across from each other this time, with a flickering candle between us. Once again, Donna ordered an expensive bottle of champagne, and I waited until we were alone before asking what she got me for Valentine’s Day.

 

“You mean you didn’t get anything for me?” she asked in mock surprise.

 

“I’m the girl,” I countered. 

 

“Hmmm, maybe being a guy isn’t so great after all.”

 

“You’ll get your goodies later on tonight, at my place. Provided you treat me right. No flowers, no candy…you’re blowing it, Mister.”

 

Instead of responding, she pulled a beautifully wrapped gift box from under the table and presented it to me with a flourish. “Will you be my Valentine?” she asked.

 

“The boy is just full of surprises,” I said as I tore off the ribbon and wrapping paper. The box was from a boutique on

 

“And I thought I felt naked in this dress,” I said as I held it up against myself. “At least I don’t have to worry about wearing it any time soon.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Donna said. “Take another look inside the box.”

 

I peered under more layers of tissue paper, and spotted an envelope. “What’s this?” I asked. “A gift certificate to a tanning salon?”

 

“Give me a little credit,” Donna replied. I opened the envelope, and my heart jumped to my throat. It was a ticket wallet from Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines. Inside was an itinerary for a one week cruise from Port Canaveral to Jamaica, Mexico and Grand Cayman. The departure date was in early March. “We just have enough time to get you a new passport,” she said.

 

A cruise! Days on end lolling on deck chairs in the tropical sun! Excursions to exotic ports of call! Formal dinners in the grand salon in my little black dress! Night after night, fucking our brains out to the rhythm of the waves! It all sounded like a fantastic dream, yet something Donna said was nagging at my subconscious. “Oh, Don, it’s wonderful!” I cried. “I’d love to go, but….”

 

“But what?”

 

“Do I really need a new passport?”

 

“Of course you do, Anne. You already have a driver license in your new name, what’s the big deal?”

 

My driver license in the name of Anne Thrope had been issued by court order as part of my punishment in the Metabolean class action settlement. One of the few good things about the Consent Decree which had doomed me to life as a woman for a year was a proviso that my old license would be returned to me once my year was up. “If I apply for a new passport, will I be able to get my old one back?”

 

I could see the hurt in Donna’s eyes as soon as the words were out of my mouth. “Is that what you want?” she asked.

 

“I don’t know…we really haven’t talked about it,” I stammered. We were so caught up with our new lives, neither one of us wanted to face the reality of what would happen when my year as a woman was over. Once I changed my gender to female in a sworn declaration to the federal government, would I ever be able to go back to being a man? Is that what I really wanted?

 

“I thought you liked things this way,” Donna persisted, taking the initiative like a man. 

 

“I do, Don. But who knows how I’ll feel when I have a chance to switch back?”

 

“I do, because that’s what I just did, remember?”

 

“And how would you feel about having to stay like that forever?”

 

“Are you kidding? I’ll never go back to being a woman if I don’t have to.”

 

“See what I mean? What if I feel the same way in September?”

 

The waiter came to take our orders, and we both pretended to be interested in his recitation of the night’s specials. Food was the last thing on our minds, and after we made the default selection of prime rib (King’s cut for Donna, Queen’s cut for me) we sat in silence, painfully aware of the other happy couples sharing their love in the crowded restaurant. Donna just stared at me, as if saying, “We have such a good thing going, baby. Please don’t screw it up.”

 

Part of me wanted to scream, “Please take me on the cruise! Take me anywhere you want to!” Just the thought of escaping from the Chicago winter for a week was enough to make me want to say yes. A whole week without getting up before dawn to wash and style my hair, put on my makeup, gussy myself up in a dress, heels and stockings to freeze my ass off on the way to my bus…what was I thinking? But another part of me was desperately afraid that I was being sucked deeper and deeper towards the point of no return. After all, Donna was a professional dominatrix. How could I be sure that this wasn’t just another of her elaborate psychological games, designed to break my will and doom me to a lifetime as a woman?

 

Our salads came, and we picked at them listlessly. Finally Donna broke the frosty silence. “Do you remember what I promised you on Christmas Eve?”

 

“You told me that you would go back to being a woman if I went back to being a man.”

 

“Well, the offer still goes. What hurts more than anything is that you won’t even consider doing the same for me.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s what I really want. Oh Don, I’m so screwed up right now!” I felt tears dripping down my cheeks.

 

She reached over with her napkin and gently wiped my face. “Your mascara is a mess,” she said with a half smile. “I’d go into the ladies room with you, but I don’t want to start another Valentine’s Day Massacre in Chicago.” I tried to laugh through my tears, and she got up and pulled back my chair. I picked up my clutch purse and hurried towards the lounge. 

 

There was a line, of course, and the girl standing in front of me surveyed my face. “Bummer! Breaking up on Valentine’s Day?” she asked.

 

She was cute, short and blonde, the kind of girl I would have lusted after when I was a guy. Now, as I followed her into the ladies room after two women walked out together, I could only sigh at how much my life had changed. Standing side by side in front of the full length mirror, I saw her lift up her skirt to fuss with her panties and hose. In times gone by, I would have wanted to grab her ass. Now I was rummaging through my purse for a tissue to fix my makeup. Is this what the rest of my life was coming to?

 

“How about some sisterly advice,” the girl said.

 

“I think I can fix it okay.”

 

“I don’t mean your mascara, I mean your man. Let me take a wild guess that you’re breaking up with him, only you’re not one hundred percent sure you’re making the right move. Well, he brought you here for Valentine’s Day, didn’t he? Do you know how many girls would kill for a guy who would put on a coat and tie and take them to a place like this?” 

 

“You don’t understand.”

 

“What, you have ‘issues’ with him? Let me tell you a little story about a guy who was head over heels in love with me, and treated me like a queen. After we started living together, one day I came home early from work and found him parading around our apartment in my panties. So I dumped him, right? Well, get this — today he’s married with two kids, living in a mansion in Winnetka, and I’m here on Valentine’s Day with a Viagra poster boy who’s cheating on his wife. Take it from me — if you find someone who makes you happy, never let him go.” Then she was gone, before I could respond.

 

I felt terribly alone as I stood there, fixing my makeup and brushing my hair. There I was, pretending to be a woman, while the only person I had ever really loved sat waiting for me, pretending to be a man. What if we were the only two people in the world, and we could switch back and forth whenever we wanted to? If we really were soul mates, did it even matter? Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I rushed back into the restaurant, looking around for my new friend and her sugar daddy to thank her, but she was nowhere to be seen. I thought nothing of it at the time.

 

I returned to our table to find Donna waiting patiently for me. Our dinners had been served, and she waited until I sat down before lifting her fork. “Such a well-mannered gentleman. I guess growing up as a girl was good for you. They’re going to be so impressed at the Captain’s table.”

 

“Does that mean you’ll go on the cruise with me?”

 

“Of course, silly. As a very wise person once told me, ‘If you find someone who makes you happy, never let him go.’ If becoming a woman is what it takes to make you stay, then I’ll put up with all of the hassles, but you’re gonna owe me big time, buddy.”

 

That night was incredible. After we got back to my apartment, Donna slowly undressed me, kissing each new place as my skin was unveiled. Soon all I had on were my teddy, panties and stockings, and she paused to lovingly peel the nylons off my legs before she stripped me bare and went to work with her tongue and fingers. Have you ever experienced simultaneous male and female orgasms? Had your penis sucked while your ass was penetrated until you were racked with spasms of unimaginable ecstasy? Donna did that to me again and again, and when it was over, I would have been content to live out my days as a woman if it meant all my nights would be like that.

 

* * *

 

I could hardly believe it when my alarm clock went off at six o’clock the next morning. Donna must have let herself out after I finally fell asleep, and when I dragged my naked body into the bathroom to turn on the shower, I was stunned by my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a tangled mop, my face was streaked with makeup, and there was a vicious hickey halfway up my neck. After I shampooed and conditioned my hair and soaped my tender skin under a hot shower, I dried myself off and went through the now-familiar motions of styling my hair and putting on my makeup. The hickey was still visible despite my efforts to conceal it.

 

I rummaged through my closet for the knit dress with a turtleneck collar that would hide my hickey. It was very short, but I had no choice. After putting on my lingerie, nylons and dress, I glanced at the clock and saw that I was running late. The stilettos that I’d kicked off on my way into bed lay on the floor where I left them, and without thinking I put them on, dumped the contents of my clutch into a matching purse, pulled on my coat and raced for the door. Normally I stuffed my heels into a shoulder bag and wore long socks and sneakers on the way to work, but there was no time for that today. I fished my scarf and gloves out of my coat pockets on the way to the elevator, and by the time I was out on the sidewalk, I had to sprint in my heels to make the bus. It was barely above zero, and my legs were purple by the time I got to the bus stop. Fortunately, my bus got there at the same time I did, and I was able to grab the last seat as we lurched off. 

 

Another day, another dress, I thought to myself. Life at the office had settled into a surreal routine, in which my former colleagues pretended not to notice that I was dressed as a woman, and my former underlings did their best to accept me as one of their own. 

I was just firing up my computer when Gladys poked her head into my cubicle. “Big night last night?” she asked.

 

“I must look like shit.”

 

“Far from it! You have the glow of a woman in love.” I felt myself blushing. “I just came in to tell you that Mr. Sharkman’s Executive Assistant is off this week, and he wants you to take down the minutes of his weekly staff meeting. It starts in five minutes.”

 

Just what I needed! All of my old direct reports would be in that meeting, along with Dick Sharkman himself, the womanizing creep who had hit on me at the office holiday party. I grabbed my steno pad and made a quick stop at the ladies room to freshen my lipstick and straighten my hair before walking into the lion’s den. 

 

“Good morning, Anne,” Sharkman said with a thin smile when I entered the crowded conference room and began looking for a seat at the long table. “Why don’t you sit here,” he said, pointing to a chair against the wall, next to table laden with coffee and muffins. Of course — that way they could look up my dress! I sat down awkwardly, tugging my hem down towards my knees while every man in the room stared at my legs. I crossed them carefully and perched my steno pad on my silky thigh. 

 

“Anne, could you freshen up my coffee, please?” a snotty junior executive asked.

 

“Me, too,” another one said, and then another. I could feel their eyes following me as I stood up and walked over to the coffee table in my stilettos. It was impossible not to walk like a bimbo in those heels, and I could only imagine what they must be thinking about their former boss as he bent over in his short dress to fill their mugs. When I was finished, I returned to my chair, and caught several of them smirking as I crossed my legs and pulled my dress down. Mercifully, Sharkman turned down the lights to make a power point presentation about a new product in development, and the rest of the meeting passed without further mortification.

 

After the lights came back on and the meeting broke up, I waited for my former colleagues to leave, looking down at my pad and pretending to study my notes. When only Dick Sharkman remained, I got up and headed for the door. “Oh, Anne,” he said, “I’m leaving for L.A. first thing tomorrow morning. Could you please have the draft minutes ready for me before you go home tonight?”

 

I looked down at my scrawls on the steno pad. It would take me hours to decipher my own handwriting and type of something presentable, and I knew Sharkman was just trying to get a rise out of me, but something inside me refused to give him the satisfaction. “Yes, sir,” I said. I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I minced out of the room.

 

Gladys intercepted me on my way back to my cubicle. “How about some lunch?” she asked. “There’s a big sale at Marshall Fields if we hurry.”

 

“Sorry, I’m swamped. Mr. Sharkman just dumped the minutes on me — he wants them before he leaves for La-la-land tomorrow.”

 

“I’ve been there. He’ll hang around tonight waiting for you to finish them, and when everybody else has gone home and you’re still slaving away, he’ll ask you out to dinner.”

 

I was gobsmacked. “You gotta be kidding. Unless you’re telling me he’s gay.”

 

“Well, not exactly. But I did find out from one of the MIS guys I’m dating that Mr. Sharkman has been visiting some very interesting web sites.”

 

“Omigod. You mean like ‘Chicks With Dicks?’”

 

“Exactly. It seems he has a thing for girlie men.”

 

“Can’t he get fired for visiting sites like that on company time?”

 

“Dear, sweet, innocent Anne…he’s an exec, remember? Those rules are only for us peons.”

 

With a shake of my head, I bent over my keyboard and began the tedious process of transcribing my pathetic “shorthand” into some semblance of what went on during the staff meeting. Gladys brought me a bowl of soup and some crackers when she got back from lunch, and I was surprised to see her coat covered with snow. “It’s a blizzard outside,” she said. “Good thing you don’t live in the burbs.” I thanked her and returned to my screen. After hearing about the weather, I felt cozy in my little cubicle, and my thoughts drifted to Donna as I kicked off my heels and tucked my legs up under my skirt. The hassles of being a woman seemed a small price to pay for the ecstasy we shared together, and in a few weeks, we’d be basking in the tropical sunshine. I thought of calling her to whisper a few obscenities, but I had no privacy, so I thought the better of it.

 

The hours flew by as the minutes took shape, and at a few minutes before five, I printed them out and put on my stilettos to take them to Sharkman. Most of the staff had already gone home after the office manager closed the office early on account of the snowstorm, and I encountered no one on my way to my old office. Sharkman was hunched over his computer screen, and he didn’t see me when I approached his desk. When he heard me place the minutes in his inbox, he sat up with a start, and I couldn’t help but see the image of a girl with an enormous penis on the web site he’d been secretly browsing. 

 

Sharkman tried to act nonchalant as he switched off his computer, no doubt hoping that I hadn’t seen what I’d seen. “That was fast work, Anne,” he said smoothly as he perused the minutes. “These are excellent.” He waved at the expansive windows in the corner office. “It’s pretty nasty out there. Can I give you a lift home?”

 

I weighed the misery of slogging through the snow to wait for a bus in my short dress and high heels against the humiliation of being dropped off at my crummy apartment in Dick Sharkman’s company car. What if he hit on me when we got in the car? It would be his word against mine. “No, thanks,” I replied. “I can’t compete with your virtual girlfriends.”

 

“What do you mean?” he asked nervously.

 

“I don’t think you could give me a hard-on if my life depended on it. And Mr. Sharkman, I’d be careful about those web sites you’re visiting on the network server.” I spun on my heel and got halfway back to my cubicle before I felt him grab my arm.

 

“You’re not planning to tell anybody about this, are you?” he said as he spun me around.

 

“What if I do? Are you going to get me fired? Gee, then I won’t have to dress up as a woman any more. Go ahead, make my day.” I pulled away from him and crossed my arms defiantly. In my heels, I was taller than he was, and I felt a sudden power over a man that was strangely exhilarating.  

 

“Aaron, please, let’s talk about this.”

 

“Aaron is history,” I spit out the words. “And so are you, if you try to fuck with me again.” I returned to my cubicle, picked up my coat and purse, and headed for the elevator. He didn’t try to follow me.

 

* * *

 

The sun beat down on my bare back while Donna smoothed another nerdle of sunscreen onto my tender skin.  “Getting a suite with a private balcony has one downside,” she said. “With you going topless all the time, I won’t get to see any tan lines.”

 

I rolled over and reached up to kiss her lightly on the lips. The little skirt on my swimsuit ruffled in the warm breeze, and the nipples on my emerging breasts were hard with desire. “If you do decide to go back to being a woman, the tan lines from your beard will be a lot harder to explain.”

 

“If I go back to being a woman, who’s going to able to satisfy you?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know…Dick Sharkman seems kinda interested.”

 

“If he comes anywhere near you, he’ll get a taste of my hormone gun.” 

 

“Your hormone gun turns me on.” I started to nuzzle on her ear. “Let’s do it right now,” I whispered.

 

“Again? You’re incorrigible!”

 

“Just making up for lost time.” I got up and waggled my ass as I walked into our stateroom. She was two steps behind me, and by the time I had my swimsuit off, she was on top of me, pressing me down into the soft pillows on our king size bed. I spread my legs and waited for the joys to come.

 

Donna was never particularly stacked, and the strapper t-shirt she always wore to bed concealed her small breasts.  With her boyish hips and toned pecs, she had the look of a spunky teenager who’s just lost his virginity and is eager for more. As always, she climbed on top. My breasts had become wonderfully sensitive, and she delighted in teasing them with her teeth while her hands caressed what remained of my manhood.  Again and again, she brought me to the brink and sent me over the edge. My hormones had reached a happy equilibrium, and I was capable of prolonged erections which enabled me to pleasure Donna endlessly after each shattering orgasm of my own. 

 

By the time we were sated, it was almost time for dinner. Donna showered first, and she was almost finished dressing by the time I got out of the bathroom. “It’s formal night,” she reminded me as she fumbled with her cufflinks. “I’m glad I don’t have to wear a tux every night. It’s almost as much of a hassle as being a woman.”

 

“Poor baby,” I said. “I think we’ll move to the sunbelt. It would sure beat living in Chicago this time of year. All I’m wearing tonight are a bra, panties, and my little black dress.”

 

“I doubt if they’ll let you into the dining salon without your shoes,” Donna said as she strapped on her cummerbund. “Is this thing backwards?”

 

“It doesn’t really matter,” I said, miffed that she had ignored my hint of a permanent relationship. “No one’s going to notice you anyway.” I sat down on the rumpled bed to strap on a pair of high heeled sandals. 

 

“I suppose you think they’ll all be staring at you.”

 

“Um hmm.” I turned my back to Donna so she could zip me up. “Aren’t you jealous?”

 

 “Are you kidding? Every guy on this ship is jealous of me.” She nuzzled my neck after she fastened the clasp on my dress, and I could feel myself become aroused again. 

 

With supreme will power, I turned around and straightened Donna’s bow tie. “Let’s get out of here while we still have our pants on,” I said in my sultriest voice.

 

“Anne Thrope, whatever am I going to do with you?” she sighed.  How about marrying me, dummy, I said to myself. I took her hand and she escorted me down the promenade deck towards the grand salon. The breeze felt wonderful as it swirled my dress around my bare knees, and I squeezed her hand while we stared into the moonlit night. At that moment, my life was perfect, and I knew what I wanted to do with it. Before I could change my mind, I paused and removed something from my purse. Donna gave me a quizzical look as I flung it over the rail, and we both watched as it spun into the water and disappeared beneath the waves. “What was that?” Donna asked.

 

“Aaron Thrope’s passport,” I said. “When I got my new one, I hung onto it, just in case. I don’t think I’ll be needing it anymore. Do you?”

 

I looked up at Donna, but instead of the smile I expected, there was a dark look on her face that I had never seen before. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

 

“Nothing. Let’s eat.” Startled, I followed her into the enormous dining room, which was already crowded with suntanned couples in their tuxes and fancy dresses. Our table seated six, and our companions for the voyage were already there: a pair of empty nesters from New Jersey and two tipsy women who were vacationing from their husbands. They greeted us with their customary enthusiasm, seemingly quite taken with the attractive young couple who were so much in love. But tonight, they must have noticed something different between us, as Donna withdrew deeper and deeper into a mysterious funk. Before our entrees were served, the orchestra began to play “What I Did for Love.” Desperate to get away from the table so I could talk to her, I told Donna that I wanted to dance. 

 

“I don’t think so,” Donna said.

 

“Come on, Don,” the woman from New Jersey broke in. “Be a sport.”

 

“Maybe he’d rather dance with one of us,” one of the hausfraus volunteered. To avoid a scene, Donna reluctantly pulled back my chair and led me out onto the dance floor. I waited until I was in her arms, and she started listlessly leading me around in circles. “What’s the matter, Don?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Come on. I know you too well.”

 

“You don’t know me at all, Anne.”

 

“Give me a break! I don’t even know myself anymore. I’m dancing backwards in high heels, trying to figure out why the most important person in my world is about to dump me. What’s going on?”

 

She bit her lip, and I thought she was going to start to cry. “I can’t keep this up anymore.”

 

“Keep what up?”

 

Again, she withdrew into her shell. I pressed myself against her and whispered, “Please, Don, just level with me. Whatever it is can’t be that bad.” 

 

She pressed her cheek against mine so she could speak without looking into my eyes. “Okay, you asked for it. Maybe it’s for the best. You were bound to find out sooner or later anyway. It’s just that the past four months have been so amazing….

 

“When the Metabolean settlement went down, a lot of the plaintiffs were incensed that you got off so lightly. Their expert witnesses already knew that Metabolean was the perfect antidote for temporary feminization, and instead of a one-year sentence, they wanted life. One of their lawyers approached me with an offer: if I could fix you for good, they’d pay me a million dollars under the table.”

 

My head was spinning. “Fix me for good?”

 

“Make it so you would never go back to being a man. The hormones were phase one. Your friend Gladys was cut in, although she never knew what was at stake. Exposing myself to Metabolean was a calculated risk, but once I got a taste of being a guy, I was hooked. You gotta admit, the sex was great. Then I came up with the idea of taking you on this cruise. I selected an itinerary that would require you to get a new passport, and I even anticipated that you would dig in your heels. When I saw you throw your old passport overboard, I suddenly realized that this could never last. I’ve been manipulating you every step of the way.”

 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Okay, so you shot me with your stupid hormone gun and bribed Gladys to be nice to me. I still think you’re giving yourself a little too much credit. I decided to get a new passport after I had a heart to heart with a total stranger on Valentine’s Day.”

 

“Anne, that girl you met in the ladies room at Lawry’s was working for me.”

 

I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. “So all of this has been an act?”

 

“No! That’s the worst part of it. I love you, dammit!” She choked back a sob.

 

My budding female intuition told me that Donna’s love for me was real, and that she was as afraid of losing me as I was afraid of losing her. Whatever she had done, I was going to stand by my man. “You really don’t know me very well, do you?”

 

“No, and now I never will,” she sniffed. “That’s the worst part. I’m going to spend the rest of my life knowing I blew it.”

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

She stifled another sob. “What do you mean?”

 

I reached into her breast pocket and removed her decorative silk handkerchief. Gently, I dabbed the tears off her beautiful face before I inserted it back in her pocket and rested my chin on her shoulder. “I was a total shit before you came into my life. A ‘misanthrope’ was what the mediator called me. Well, somehow you turned me into a different person, and in the process you stopped being a manipulating dominatrix and picked up a conscience. That’s why you had to confess what you did to me.”

 

“But how could you ever forgive me? I’ve been a complete shit.”

 

“It takes one to love one.”

 

She lifted my chin and kissed me softly on the lips.  “I guess we were made for each other,” she said. I felt an erection poking against my dress, and Donna felt it too as I pressed myself against her. “That’s not very ladylike.”

 

“All I have on under this dress is a pair of panties. I can’t go back to the table looking like this!”

 

She took me in her arms and swept me off my feet. “Could you ever marry a millionaire?” she asked as she carried me back towards our stateroom.

 

A valentine from the author of Skylord, coming in early 2005

http://snurl.com/skylord 

Oak Street. Inside, under layers of tissue paper, was the skimpiest bathing suit I had ever seen.

 

On Strike!
by Nom de Plume  © 2004

I got the idea while listening to the news on the radio, during another grinding commute home from the big city. It seemed a couple in Florida had gotten so sick and tired of their spoiled, neglectful children that they were camping outside their house in beach chairs, refusing to go back to being parents until their brats knuckled under.

Why couldn’t I go on strike from being the breadwinner? My lazy wife did nothing but loll around the house all day watching TV, and my teenage daughter cared only about clothes, her social life and her revolting boyfriend. I couldn’t recall the last time one of them had a conversation with me that didn’t end up with their hands in my pocket. Maybe I could teach them a lesson before they sent me into an early grave. Why couldn’t I go on strike from being a man?

* * *

There is something about me that you should know: ever since I was a little boy, I have been fascinated by women’s clothing. I used to sneak into my sister’s room and try on her skirts and dresses when I was home alone, until my legs sprouted hair and my feet outgrew her shoes. For years afterwards, I suppressed my desires, furtively surfing the web for kindred souls who shared my obsession. When my job required me to start traveling out of town, I painstakingly acquired a complete woman’s wardrobe, which I would wear in my hotel rooms into the wee hours of the night. Dolled up in a wig, makeup and other feminine paraphernalia, I would lose myself in chat rooms, pretending to be a woman until I exploded into my panties. I concealed all this from my wife, who was too self-absorbed to have a clue. When she lost all interest in sex soon after the birth of our daughter, my computer sessions as a virtual woman became the only outlet for my frustration.

Still, I would never have dared to expose my secret life to my family had it not been for the events that evening. When I finally crawled off the freeway and made it through the door, I was greeted with "You're late" from the wife, who didn’t bother to look up from her magazine. She was spread out on the living room sofa, cuddled up next to a bag of Doritos in her bulging stretchpants.

"Traffic was terrible."

"Well, it's too late for you to expect me to cook dinner." Newsflash! When was the last time the woman cooked anything? What she meant was, she was too lazy to drag her fat ass into the kitchen to throw something into the microwave. "You'll have to go pick up some takeout."

Too tired to protest, I was about to ask her whether she wanted pizza or Chinese when the daughter came into the room. Her pierced navel was prominently displayed between her belly shirt and low-cut jeans. "I need the keys to the Acura," she said impatiently.

"Take your father’s car."

"No way! You can't expect me to be seen in that piecer!”

"I don't blame you," the wife said. "It's embarrassing to be seen in that heap, but we’re lucky to afford one decent car on your father’s salary.” She swiveled her guns back onto me. “Why don't you give her your keys, and you can take my car to pick up dinner. And while you're at it, you can pick up some groceries that we'll need for the weekend. My mother is coming to visit for a few days."

I knew what that meant. The last time her mother decided to visit for a few days, she camped out in our spare room for a month. "I'm just beat," I protested. "Can't you go to the store tomorrow ?"

"I have tennis tomorrow morning, and then I have to get my hair done."

"Daddy, the keys? Now?" No pleasantries, no please, just give me the keys.

I handed them to the daughter, who disappeared instantly. "When does your mother get here," I asked the wife.

"Saturday afternoon. You'll need to get all of your junk out of her room." By her room, she meant my den, and by my junk, she meant a project I was working on for the office. I started to protest, but she was just winding up. "Try to do it tomorrow night when you get home. I have a long list of jobs for you to take care of on Saturday morning."

“I thought I’d go to the game on Saturday morning.” My favorite team was coming to town, and I had been looking forward to it all week.

“If you think I’m going to sit around here on Saturday while you’re off at a game, you’ve got another think coming!” I retreated into our bedroom and threw my suit jacket down on the bed. "Pick that up," the wife said as she followed me into the room. "And don't put on those bum clothes that you wear around the house. You might run into someone we know at the supermarket." I tried to ignore her as I changed, but she was relentless. "Did you ask for a raise today?"

"No." Things were tough at the company, a reality which I had kept from my family, not wanting to worry them.

"What a wimp," she sighed. I tried to escape into the bathroom, but she was all over me.

“Don’t make a mess in there like usual. The housekeeper complained so much about you today, I had to give her a raise. And don’t forget to put the seat down. Men!”

At the sound of that word, I finally snapped. The twisted idea that had come into my head during my commute suddenly didn’t sound so crazy. Maybe our lives would never be the same, but anything would be better than the life I was living. I had some comp time coming from the office, and tomorrow the wife and daughter would be out most of the day. When they got home, we’d see how they got by without a man around the house.

I surveyed my sad reflection in the mirror above the vanity. My hair was thinning and prematurely gray, but when I put on my woman’s wig, I looked years younger. When I dressed on the sly, I relied on female impersonators’ tricks to cover up my body hair, but now I finally had an excuse to shave my legs. My weight was up a few pounds, but a one-night fast would give me a girlish figure that the wife could only dream about.

Emboldened by my plan, I tore off my clothes and walked out of the bathroom naked. The wife watched with an evil eye as I put on my pajamas and pulled back the covers. “What are you doing? What about our dinner?”

“I’m not hungry, and I’m going to bed.”

“What about me?”

“You could stand to lose a few pounds. Why don’t you skip a meal for once in your life?”

She stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

The next morning, I slipped out of the house for a five mile run through the suburban streets that were my family’s sanctuary. I would have much preferred to live in the city, but I had resigned myself to the daily grind of a two-hour commute to afford them the life they desired. Any second-thoughts about my plan of action disappeared as I pounded out the miles. If they weren’t going to appreciate the sacrifices I made for them, they’d better get used to me for who I was. By the time I got home, the daughter had already left for school, and the wife was waiting for me in her tennis whites, looking obscenely ridiculous. “You’re going to be late for work,” she sputtered.

“And good morning to you, dear. It’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Don’t get smart with me! I’m not talking to you after your little stunt last night.”

“Works for me,” I said with a smile as I poured myself a bowl of her Special K with skim milk. She stormed out of the kitchen, only to return a few seconds later with her shopping list.

“Are you going to work today?”

“Maybe.”

“Make sure you get to the supermarket, and don’t forget to clear out my mother’s room.”

“When will you get home?”

“I’m having lunch with the girls after I get my hair done.”

Perfect. The daughter didn’t get out of school until three o’clock, and the wife had never finished a ladies lunch in less than three hours. All the time I needed.

“Are you going to work today, or not?” she persisted.

“I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

Before she could take my head off, one of her tennis mates rang the doorbell, and she drove off in a huff.

Alone at last! After calling my office to tell them I wouldn’t be in until Monday, I went into the garage to retrieve my secret stash of women’s clothing, which I kept in a locked suitcase under a box of tools. The first thing I did was to put all of my unmentionables and tops into the minibasket in the washing machine. I stuffed my stockings into a hosiery bag and threw them in, too. After setting the washer on delicate and adding some detergent, I got out the ironing board and took my time smoothing out the wrinkles in my skirts and dresses. As I busied myself with these essential tasks, I felt my excitement building with what lay ahead.

While I was waiting for the washer to finish, I spread out my makeup on the bathroom vanity and poured some of the wife’s expensive moisturizing beads into the tub, which I filled with steaming hot water. Back to the laundry room to move my clothes into the dryer, then into the tub with a handful of disposable razors.

I swore I could hear drum rolls as I took that first fateful swipe. It was almost magical, watching the hair disappear from my legs, which gradually became sleek and delicate. When they were both finished, I lay back in the tub, pointed my toes and kicked my legs excitedly, reveling in my newfound femininity.

I took another razor to my arms and chest, which soon were smooth as a baby’s. My underarms were the last to go, and when I was through, I could hardly wait to get out of the tub. It was almost like I had a whole new body, and I was dying to try it on for size. I nearly forgot to shave my face, which I did with extra care before patting myself dry.

I wrapped the towel around my head and smoothed the wife’s expensive moisturizer over my tender limbs. After wrapping another towel around my trembling body, I returned to the laundry room, hung up my tops next to my dresses and skirts, and returned to the bathroom with my wig and lingerie. I took my time brushing out my wig before removing my turban and tugging it onto my head. More work with the brush and a little hairspray, and I was ready for my makeup. Moisturizer, foundation, eyeliner, shadow, eyebrow pencil, pressed powder, mascara, blush — everything went on effortlessly after years of practice.

When I was satisfied with the end result, I removed the towel from around my chest and fished my wonder bra out of the pile of freshly laundered lingerie. It smelled so clean and sweet as I fastened it behind my back and inserted the cookies into the cups. My heart was pounding as I tucked myself between my legs and stepped into a matching pair of panties. This was the moment I had been waiting for: all my previous crossdressing had been with a hairy body, masked by multiple layers of tights and long sweaters. For the first time, I was about to see myself as a woman in her bra and panties. When I stepped in front of the full length mirror and stared back at myself, it was love at first sight. From my shoulder-length hair to my smooth legs, I was all girl.

Lipstick and nylons: those were the twin badges of femininity which I had always yearned to put on while looking like this. My hands were shaking when I selected a pair of nude pantyhose from my hosiery bag, and although I had long imagined what it must feel like to wear stockings over freshly shaved legs, nothing could have prepared me for the sensations which I experienced that morning. Seeing my toes encased in nylon for the first time as I eased the delicate fabric up my feet and ankles was a life-altering experience, which only intensified as I slowly slid the delicious stockings up my calves and over my knees. When I finally pulled my pantyhose up to my waist, I felt my silky legs brush together as I walked back to the mirror to see if this was really happening. Almost in a trance, I took out my lipstick and watched the girl in the mirror, wearing only her panties, bra and stockings, apply a coat of pink to her pouting lips, her long lashes fluttering over smoky eyes.

When I finished lingering over my lipstick, I took a white, lacy slip and stepped into it, slowly pulling it up over my panties and bra and smoothing it into place. The feeling of cool nylon against my smooth body was electrifying, and my pulse was racing as I pulled a chair in front of the mirror and sat down to watch myself polish my nails. The girl in the mirror carefully began to apply coral polish to her eager fingers, crossing her silky legs under the lacy hem of her slip. When I saw my slip sliding up my stockings, the sights and sensations were suddenly too much for me, and although my penis was soft and tucked between my legs, I was overwhelmed my a sweet, exquisite glow that spread all the way down to my toes. The spell was broken only when I realized that my nice clean panties were flooded with a sticky souvenir of my former self.

If anything, my orgasm seemed to reinforce my newfound femininity. Relieved of my sex drive, I felt serene and relaxed as I finished polishing my nails. There was a momentary distraction while I peeled off my soiled panties and hose and wiped myself clean, then I was putting on a fresh pair of panties and enjoying the experience of easing a new pair of pantyhose up my lustrous legs. I no longer felt like a man putting on women’s clothing. I felt like a woman.

Which outfit should I wear today? I decided to show off my arms and legs with a short sleeved top that I had only been able to wear under sweaters, and a knee-length jumper. I was careful not to muss my hair when I dropped my top over my head, and I appraised my reflection with a critical eye while I tied the strings behind my jumper into a bow which snugged the dress against my pert breasts and slim hips. I had a coltish figure accentuated by nicely shaped legs, and on a whim I pulled my hair back into a ponytail with one of the wife’s scrunchies, giving me an All American Girl look. I stepped into a pair of skimmer flats, clipped on my earrings, and returned to the bedroom to accessorize my outfit with scarves and jewelry from the wife’s extensive collection.

Taking off my wedding ring was like crossing the Rubicon. I reminded myself that I had paid for the bracelet, necklace and wristwatch that I selected, and they looked infinitely better on me than they did on her. With that liberating thought, I tied a Gucci scarf around my neck and treated myself to a generous spritz of her most expensive cologne. From that moment on, I was on strike from being a man. The question was, would I ever be able to go back?

* * *

Our front yard has an old elm tree with a long, graceful swing that I built for the daughter in happier times. Shortly before three o’clock, with a straw bonnet tied under my chin, I took up my position and started swinging, gradually going higher and higher as I pumped my legs gaily back and forth. In addition to my new bonnet, the fruits of my shopping excursion that morning were on display in the front yard: a large banner was draped across the front of the house, with the words “HUSBAND ON STRIKE” emblazoned in bold red letters, and a refreshment stand and chairs were lined up by the sidewalk. A few well-placed calls to the media had produced the desired result, and two satellite vans with minicam crews were taking up position on either side of my swing when the wife pulled into the driveway.

I watched from on high as she got out of the car in her ridiculous tennis costume and fought her way past the growing throng, pushing and shoving as she went. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her husband swinging back and forth, his dress fluttering around his knees. When she read the banner, it slowly dawned on her, and she started in on me in a blind fury. “What is the meaning of this?” she roared.

“I’m on strike,” I said in a girlish voice just loud enough for the news cameras to pick up.

“You get down from there, right now!”

“Can’t make me,” I pouted.

“Why are you on strike?” one of the newsmen asked.

“Cause I’m tired of not getting any respect for being the man of the house. Let her try wearing the pants around here for a change.”

“Get down here this minute!” the wife screamed. “What will the neighbors say?”

“I think he’s adorable,” the woman from next door chimed in.

“What are your demands?” the newsman asked.

“Three things: first, I get to go to the football game tomorrow. Second, if my mother-in-law stays more than two days, she moves into a hotel. And third,” I said to the wife, “you go on a diet until you can fit into one of my dresses.”

With that, the wife snapped completely. She fought her way back into her car and started backing down the driveway, scattering neighbors and news crews like bowling pins as she went. Fortunately, none of them were seriously injured, but unfortunately she was heard screaming “white trash” on national television as she mowed them down. The cameras caught it all as she was cuffed by the police and taken away. They say she will be out in three to five years with good behavior.

Her sensational performance was all the media needed to turn my strike into a publicity bonanza. Book and movie deals poured in, and I’m seriously considering a move to the coast. I’m going to have to wrap this up, because Matt Lauer is holding, Fox News is on the other line, and I have to get ready for a photo shoot with People magazine.

As for the daughter, it’s the darndest thing, but once she realized one of her parents was a national celebrity, we became the best of friends. She thinks my clothes are lame, and I’m not wild about hers, but we’re both coming around.

From the author of The Jessica Project and Skylord
http://snurl.com/jessicaproject
http://snurl.com/skylord

Reality TV

 © 2003 by Nom de Plume

It will be billed as “Fear Factor” meets “The Bachelor”. Out of twenty-four contestants vying for the right to marry Mr. Right, one will secretly be a guy. If “she” survives the elimination rounds and makes it into the finals, when intimacy is to be expected prior to the climactic episode, all bets are off.

Andrea Messenger tossed the pitch sheet onto the tablecloth and poured skim milk into her muesli. Where did Hap come up with these ideas?

Hap Arnhold joined her at her banquette at the Polo Lounge a few minutes later, wearing the uniform of a Hollywood agent: black mock turtleneck, black slacks, black Armani jacket. Andrea’s subdued dress made her feel like a peacock by comparison. A bad analogy, she thought to herself as Hap ordered his customary bagel and coffee. Weren’t the females the drab sex in the bird world?

As if reading her mind, Hap started in. “Sex roles have been upside down in this town since ‘Some Like it Hot’, he said between mouthfuls of bagel, “and that documentary that A&E put on about guys and girls swapping places blew your network out of the water. Your ratings for the last ‘Bachelor’ were way down. This is the perfect way to add a little spice to a tired format.”

“Come on, Hap, nobody would believe it. In the first place, there’s no way a guy could last five minutes in that circus without being outed by one of the other girls. They’ll all be out for blood.”

“So, even if that happens, you’ll have pumped your numbers for the first episode, which is crucial, I don’t have to tell you. But think about it, Andrea: if these girls all want to win, won’t it be in each of their interest to keep the fake girl in the competition as long as possible? There’s no way she’s going to win it, but each girl she knocks out in the early rounds improves the rest of their chances.”

Andrea reflected on this as Hap took a call on his cell phone. “Hi, I’m in the lounge, sitting with a pretty woman in a blue dress,” he said as he winked at Andrea. “Come join us.” Tall and gangly, with dark curly hair and designer glasses, Andrea was hardly pretty, but she was used to agents kissing her ass.

Hap put his cell phone away and said apologetically, “Sorry, that was my assistant. Some papers I need to sign. Won’t take a minute.” Andrea looked up as a stunning blonde entered the restaurant and approached them hesitantly. She was tall and athletic looking, with terrific legs beneath her short pleated skirt, and she juggled her purse and briefcase as she waited for Hap to introduce her to Andrea.

“Andrea, meet Jan Peterson. Sit down, Jan, and join us.” Jan slid onto the banquette next to Hap, a shy smile on her beautiful face.

The girl pulled a contract from her briefcase and handed it to Hap. Andrea looked at Hap in surprise as he slid it across the table to her. “Sign here, Andrea, and welcome your mystery contestant to ‘The Bachelor’.

Andrea’s jaw dropped as she stared at Jan, who blinked back at her nervously. “You mean, she’s really…a guy?”

Jan blushed a bright crimson and started to get up from the table. Hap held his arm and told him to sit still as Andrea stared at him. If she hadn’t been told, there was no way she would have guessed. “How long have you been dressing up like this?” she finally asked.

“I just started this year.” His voice was soft and sweet, without a trace of masculinity, and Andrea noticed that his gestures and body language were totally feminine.

Andrea glanced down at the contract. “Your real name is Jan?”

“Yes.”

“Are you gay?” Andrea asked.

“Really, Andrea, I’m surprised at you,” Hap broke in. “I haven’t heard that question in this town in years.” Short and slender, with a shaved head and trim mustache, Hap was gay himself.

“Get real, Hap. I’ve got a mainstream audience. If we gay it up, you can write off the red states, and my sponsors would never go for it.”

“I’m not gay,” Jan answered before Hap could intervene again. “I’m a normal guy, and I like girls.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“How else am I going to break into this business? Here,” he said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a photo spread of a young man with a slight build and nondescript features. Andrea studied them and looked back at Jan. The resemblance was unmistakable, but Andrea had to admit to herself that Jan was infinitely more attractive as a woman. It was impossible to tell whether her wispy blonde hair was real or an expensive wig, her blue eyes sparkled, and her makeup was flawless. Andrea realized that she was already thinking of Jan as a she.

“Hap, I’m gonna have to run this by Mr. Goodkin, but I think he might just go for it. Jan, I want you to meet me in my office this afternoon at four o’clock. Here’s my card.” She folded up the contract and put it into her briefcase. “And wear something casual. If we’re going to pull this off, you’ll have to live in the Girls’ House for at least two weeks, and that means yakking it up in jeans and a tee shirt till all hours of the night with a school of piranha. Do you think you’re ready for that?”

“Bring it on,” Jan smiled sweetly. “They’ll never know what hit them.”

* * *

“This is Sam Ruben with the Hollywood Report. As all of America knows by now, tonight’s opening episode of ‘The Bachelor’ has an amazing twist: one of the would-be brides is not what she seems. But which of the 24 lovely ladies is really a man? That’s the question that everybody is talking about. ABC is expecting a record audience tonight as America tunes in to the ultimate gender-bender. Will the other girls give her away, or will they help cover for her to better their own odds? And can Jason, last year’s runner-up in ‘The Bachelorette’, figure her out in time?”

Jan switched off the television in his bedroom at the Girls’ House and stretched. Dressed in a yellow nightshirt that came to mid-thigh, he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. His blonde hair had grown long enough over the past several months to be styled into a shag, which he absent-mindedly fluffed as he turned sideways to inspect his figure. Jan had reluctantly initiated a minimal regimen of female hormones, prescribed by a disreputable Dr. Feelgood, after the network signed his contract. Hap Arnhold had convinced him that the temporary side effects would be well worth it if they prolonged his exposure on national television. As he raised his nightshirt and appraised his softer skin and emerging curves, Jan admitted to himself that the tradeoff had been necessary. Although his budding breasts were barely an A-cup, in a Wonder bra he had a hint of cleavage, almost as much as some of the other girls.

And his long, slim legs were the best in the competition, an edge which Jan exploited with his carefully chosen wardrobe of short outfits. At the taping of the first episode, when the girls promenaded in cocktail attire, Jan had stolen the show in a little black dress. It would be fun to watch himself wearing it on television tonight, especially since he already knew the outcome: Jan was among the twelve girls who had received a rose, the ticket to the next round of eliminations.

Today’s taping of the next episode was going to take place at Dodger stadium, where the girls would be expected to cavort with ballplayers on the sidelines before taking their seats with Jason in a plush skybox. So far, Jan had managed to get by with only a few shy words to Jason, and he hoped that the hubbub of the ballgame would provide enough of a distraction for him to pass for another round.

Jan peeled off his nightshirt and took a long, hot shower, shaving his legs as he did so. One of the stipulations which the network had agreed to when they let Jan into the competition was to give each contestant a private bedroom and shower. The Girls’ House was, in fact, a compound consisting of twelve two-bedroom townhouses clustered around a clubhouse with a dining and recreation area, where the girls hung out and mugged for the television cameras. The girl who occupied the other bedroom in Jan’s townhouse had been eliminated in the first round, a huge break which meant that he now he had the entire unit to himself.

Jan’s contract specified that his income would increase significantly the longer he stayed in the competition, and he was determined to make it into the quarterfinals. Once the field was narrowed to half-a-dozen girls, he had no illusions about his ability to survive the mounting scrutiny from the television audience, the media, and the other girls, not to mention poor Jason. Up to now, this had all been a bit of a lark for him, but there was no way Jason was going to become a laughingstock on national television by allowing a guy to become his dream girl.

With these heavy thoughts, Jan selected his outfit for the day. The other girls would be wearing shorts and Dodgers tee shirts, Jan figured, but he needed to look ultra-feminine. It was going to be a warm afternoon, with Santa Ana winds, and Jan had just the thing for it: a pink and white sundress that would barely cover his ass. That, a pair of panties to match his obligatory Wonder bra, and some strappy sandals would knock them dead.

Jan blow-dried his hair and ran a polished nail over his face. Although the hormones had reduced his beard to next-to-nothing, he gave himself a close shave before putting on his makeup. Glancing at the clock on the bathroom vanity, he hurried back into the bedroom and quickly got dressed. As an afterthought, he rummaged through his dresser for an old Dodger sun visor, which he perched on top of his blonde head. Surveying himself once again in the full-length mirror, he smiled in approval. Jan Peterson was as cute as a bug.

* * *

Gloria Alvarez looked up from her bowl of cereal as Jan bounced into the dining room. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Sunshine! Look at you, girly girl. At least we know one of us isn’t a guy.”

Jan stuck out his tongue as he pulled out the chair next to Gloria’s and sat down, nonchalantly tucking his short dress under himself as he did so. “Don’t worry, Gloria, your secret’s safe with me,” Jan said cheerily. A waiter materialized and took Jan’s usual order: half a grapefruit, English muffin, and black coffee.

Gloria leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Really, Jan, I think I’ve got this figured out. Becca is the guy. Look at her,” she said, motioning with her head towards Rebecca Forte, a stunning brunette who was sitting by herself reading the Los Angeles Times sports pages. “Becca’s been talking about going to this stupid game non-stop all morning, finally drove the other girls off. She’s got to be the guy.”

Jan smiled to himself as he spooned a wedge of grapefruit into his mouth. “Maybe. But look at you, Gloria. Jeans and a sweatshirt. Are you afraid of showing us your muscles?” In fact, Gloria was quite petite, with flashing eyes and a constant smile.

Gloria laughed and said, “I’ll tell you one thing, at least I throw like a girl. Rumor has it that we’re all going to play catch with some of the Dodgers, and I’ll betcha the guy gives himself away right there.”

Jan laughed as he nibbled on his muffin. That would be tricky, all right. Jan had played second base on his high school varsity in Omaha, and he would have to fem it up when they got to the ballpark. After all he had been through to get this far, he wasn’t about to blow it all by catching a fly ball.

“What makes you think our mystery man is still in the competition?” Becca chimed in from across the room. “We all know it was Charlene.”

Charlene Boyd, a spectacular black woman, had fallen by the wayside in the first episode, and most of the girls now assumed that she was a guy in vogue mode. The hastily drawn-up rules for ‘The Bachelor’ after Jan was added to the competition provided that the identity of the lone male would not be revealed until the final episode, in order to prolong viewer interest, on the assumption that the imposter would be eliminated in the early rounds. It was a decision that was to prove catastrophic for the network.

“Okay, girls, time to get in the limos,” Andrea Messenger called out from the lobby. The girls gathered up their purses and trooped out the front door to a fleet of waiting stretch limousines. Jan, Gloria and Becca stepped into the first one, and they were off to the stadium for the pre-game taping. Jan looked out the window as Gloria and Becca prattled on about Jason, the show, and the other girls.

“What’s eating you, Missy?” Becca finally asked him.

Jan let out a deep sigh before he answered, giving himself time to invent yet another fantasy from his imagined girlhood. “I hate baseball,” he finally said. “When I was little, my dad forced me to try out for tee-ball, and I was so bad! I tried to quit, but he wouldn’t let me. So I had to play.

“The final game of the season,” Jan went on, “it was like for the league championship, and I came up in the last inning with the bases loaded. And I struck out. This was tee-ball, remember, and I couldn’t hit the stupid ball off the tee. I cried all the way home.”

“Poor baby,” Gloria said. Jan looked over at Becca, who was staring at him with a strange look on her face. Had he overplayed it?

Becca, dressed in cutoff shorts and a belly shirt, was the sexiest girl in the competition, and an early favorite to go all the way to the finals. The other girls regarded her with a mixture of awe and envy, and Jan found her incredibly attractive. Were it not for the gaffe which tucked his penis safely between his legs, he might well have given himself away just looking at her, despite the cooling effects of the hormones.

“Jan, Jan, Jan,” she finally said. “You’re a big girl now. Watching some hunks on steroids run around and grab their balls is a lot different from your tee-ball memories.” The three girls were still laughing when their limousine pulled into Chavez Ravine and deposited them at the VIP entrance.

They fought their way past a throng of paparazzi and entered the beautiful stadium, with its palm trees behind the outfield fence and the glorious banners saluting past heroes from Brooklyn and Los Angeles. A knot of cameramen was waiting for them as they walked across the lush grass towards a group of Dodgers playing catch beside third base.

Each of the girls was issued an oversized baseball glove and a Dodger hat, except Jan, whose team visor drew several admiring comments. They playfully squeezed the ballplayers’ biceps and took turns catching soft tosses from some of the players. Jan dropped everything thrown in his direction, and his short sundress flipped up in back when he tried to throw like a girl.

The cameramen finished the shoot, and the girls were being herded towards the skybox when Jan heard Becca’s voice behind him calling “Heads up!” He turned around just in time to see a baseball headed straight for his face. Instinctively, he reached up and caught it with his bare hand, realizing as he did so that he had just been exposed. He dropped the ball on the grass and looked around to see if anyone else had observed him, but the other girls all seemed preoccupied.

Becca sidled up next to him and said, “Nice catch.”

“How did you know?” Jan whispered.

“Your little story about tee-ball. They don’t have championships for kids that age. Everybody swings till they get a hit and the games usually end in a tie. At least that’s how it was when I was a little girl.”

Jan hung his head in despair. “I guess this is the end of the game for me.”

Becca stopped and looked into his eyes. “Are you kidding? No way I’m telling anybody about this. I hope we both make it into the finals. Besides, I think you’re kind of cute.”

Speechless, Jan fell in behind her as they made their way to the skybox. The rest of the afternoon was a blur as the players took the field and the girls took turns sitting next to Jason and trying to impress him. Jan kept to himself, finally slipping outside the skybox to get some fresh air during the seventh inning stretch.

He was surprised when The Bachelor came looking for him a few minutes later. “We haven’t really gotten to know one another,” Jason said with a smile. He put his arm around Jan’s shoulder, and found him to be shivering. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently.

Jan snapped back to reality. “I’m cold,” he managed to say, and indeed the winds had shifted during the game, dropping the temperature a good twenty degrees as they brought the Pacific fog onshore.

Jason removed his leather jacket and carefully draped it over Jan’s shoulders. At six foot two, the ruggedly handsome man towered over Jan. “Is that better?”

Jan snuggled up to him and looked gratefully into his eyes. “Thanks.”

“You’re awfully shy. Are you always this way?”

“Only when I’m dating a guy along with eleven other girls on national television,” Jan said with a smile, ignoring the scowls from Andrea Messenger, who was catching every word from behind the camera.

Jason threw back his head and laughed. “Finally, a girl who’ll speak her mind! Tell me, Miss Honesty, what do you think of me?”

Jan didn’t hesitate. “I think you’re the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, and it broke my heart when that bimbo didn’t pick you on ‘The Bachelorette.’” More scowls from Andrea, and another belly laugh from Jason.

One of the other girls came outside looking for them. “Hey, break it up, you two,” she said. “No fair keeping Jason all to yourself out here.”

Jason took Jan’s hand and squeezed it. “Keep the jacket. It looks good on you. Anything would,” he added lamely as he went back inside. Jan followed them back inside, and spent the rest of the game cheering a late Dodger rally along with the other girls, exchanging occasional glances with Jason.

After the game, the girls were whisked back to the Girls’ House to watch the telecast of the first episode. The taping of the next rose ceremony was scheduled for the following morning, and all of the girls seemed preoccupied with their chances as they watched themselves preen and prance on television. When Charlene Boyd missed the cut, several were heard to call out, “Sorry Charlie!” and “Bye Guy!” Jan glanced over at Becca, who smiled back at him and said nothing.

After the show was over, the girls returned to their rooms, and Jan had just finished removing his makeup when he heard a tap on the door. Probably one of the network gophers with instructions about tomorrow’s shoot. He pulled a robe over his nightshirt and opened the door. Becca slipped inside and pushed the door shut behind her.

“Shhh!” she whispered before Jan could say anything. “We’ll both get kicked off the show if they find out I’m in here.” She found the light switch and turned off the lights.

“Are you crazy?” Jan said in his normal voice.

“You have some serious explaining to do, Mister,” she said, leading him over to the sofa. “Tell me everything! How did they get you to pretend you were a girl? And how did you get so damn good at it?”

Jan sat down next to her and let out a deep sigh. She had him totally over a barrel, and he knew it. “Nobody put me up to it, except maybe my agent. He saw me act in a stage production of ‘Sugar’ and came up with the idea. When he pitched the idea to the network, I never believed they’d go for putting a guy in drag on the show.”

“You’re an actor?”

“When I can get gigs. Most of the time, I work as a waiter and a model to make ends meet.”

“Are you gay?”

“No!” he shouted.

“Shhhh! Sorry, but I had to know.”

“Why?”

Becca reached under his nightshirt and started exploring. “Because I’m incredibly horny. And you’re so hot as a girl. I wonder what you’re like as a guy?”

Jan felt himself stirring, in spite of the female hormones in his system. His penis strained against his panties as she probed under his nightshirt, and when she released it from captivity, it sprang to attention. “Wow, wait till Jason discovers this,” she giggled.

Jan started to lose control. After months of suppressing every thought, desire and instinct that might give him away, he yearned for his missing manhood, and when Becca suddenly kissed him, his old self came rushing back. He stroked her hot buttons, bringing her right up to edge until neither one of them could hold out any longer. Slowly, gently, he entered her beautiful body, up to the hilt, again and again, until finally they came together in a shattering climax.

They lay side by side without speaking, lost in time, their hearts beating in unison as they slowly came back down to earth. “Wow,” Becca finally said.

“You should see me when I’m not full of estrogen,” Jan replied.

She rolled over and rested her chin on his chest. “You mean you’re taking hormones?”

“Just until the show’s over. The doctor told me there would be no lasting effects as long as I gave them up soon.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then I guess I’ll turn into a girl. At least, I’d be too far gone to be a guy again.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“Not as long as I pull the ripcord in time. I mean, actors gain and lose tons of weight for roles all the time.” For some reason, Jan found himself opening up to her. “And I’ve got to admit, I’m going to miss this. Don’t get me wrong, I like being a guy, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life as a chick.”

“Then what do you mean, you’ll miss it?”

“I don’t know, it’s just been fun, that’s all. Like being the only person in the world who knows this incredible secret. Well, except for my agent and the network.”

“How about your family? Do they know you’re doing this?”

“Hell, no! My mom and dad are back in Omaha, and they’re having enough trouble with their son being a starving actor.”

“No girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend. How could I? Ever since we were in rehearsals for ‘Sugar’, I’ve had to shave my legs and dress up as a girl half the time, and once my agent convinced me to try out for ‘The Bachelor’, it’s been full time.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re doing all this.”

“My career was going nowhere. I’m just an average-looking guy, fighting for bit parts. With the exposure I’ll get from ‘The Bachelor’, I may be able to break out of the pack.”

“Won’t this sort of type-cast you as, well, you know, a fairy?”

“Did you ever hear of a show called ‘Bosom Buddies’?

“No.”

“It was on TV back in the eighties. A weekly sitcom. Guess who played a guy who has to dress up as a girl and live in a woman’s boarding house?”

“Beats me.”

“Tom Hanks. And it sure as hell didn’t hurt his career.”

Becca patted his hairless legs. “That still doesn’t explain one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“How did you get so good at this? Honest to God, until your little slip-up today, I never would have guessed you were a guy. And none of the other girls has a clue. They all think poor Charlene was the one.”

“I guess I’m really a good actor.”

“I’ll say.” She stroked his penis back to life, and they went at it once again. If anything, the hormones made him a better lover, slowing him down so that their bodies were in perfect synch. When they finally came, it was simultaneous once again, and this time Jan had to hush Becca as she cried out in ecstasy.

* * *

Taping for the rose ceremony was scheduled for nine o’clock, and the girls were up early preparing themselves for the big moment. For half of them, the morning would end with a long ride back to the Girls’ House to clear out their belongings and return to oblivion. For the lucky survivors, there would be a romantic dinner with Jason, beginning that evening and spread out over the next six days.

Jan tried to put his incredible night with Becca out of his head as he finished dressing. He had selected the outfit he had first worn the day he surprised Andrea Messenger at the Polo Lounge: a white mock turtleneck sweater and a short black pleated skirt, accessorized by a wide black Gucci belt and a colorful Hermes scarf. As he tugged on a pair of sheer black stockings, he wondered what Becca must be thinking as she went through the identical motions back in her room. Getting all dressed up, so full of hope, knowing full well that there was a fifty-fifty chance she would be crying her eyes out before the morning was over. For Jan, the show had started out as little more than an audacious prank, but something about this experience was drawing him closer and closer to the way women thought, felt and acted.

“Snap out of it, girl!” he said to his reflection as he appraised the finished product in the full-length mirror. Once again, Jan Peterson was devastating. Jan stepped into a pair of black pumps with gold trim, dropped a lipstick and compact into his black leather purse, and headed off to join the other girls in the dining room. Most of them had already finished breakfast, and Jan had a quick cup of coffee as they started to file out to the waiting caravan of limousines. Becca was nowhere to be seen, and Jan assumed that she had already gone outside.

He was right. When he got into the last car with Gloria and a beautiful Eurasian girl named Cat, who had the other bedroom in Becca’s townhouse, the atmosphere was so thick you could cut it with a knife. There was none of the banter from yesterday’s ride to the ballpark. Today was deadly serious, and each of the girls was focused on her own chances as they rode in silence to a seaside mansion in Palos Verdes which had been commandeered as Jason’s bachelor pad for the duration of the show.

They were assembled in a semi-circle at the foot of a wide spiral staircase, and when Jason descended to greet them, some of the girls were visibly trembling. Becca was the first girl to get a rose. Gloria shrieked when she was selected. Finally it came down to the last rose, and when Jason handed it to Jan, one of the also-rans actually fainted.

They were ushered back into the limos as soon as taping wrapped, and each of the remaining contestants was given a schedule of the activities for the remainder of the show. Jan studied it carefully during the ride back to the Girls’ House, while Gloria ran on like a chatterbox and Cat stared morosely out the window.

There was a lot of down time coming up. Jan’s dinner with Jason was scheduled for the following evening, which was good: a day to get ready, but then it would be over with. Each girl was entitled to a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive and a makeover at a Beverly Hills salon before her big date with Jason, and Jan’s was scheduled for the following morning. After the last dinner date, another rose ceremony, narrowing the field to three girls. Then an overnight getaway with Jason for each of the three, to someplace close to Los Angeles that they would get to select. Another rose ceremony, and the two girls left standing would be expected to bring Jason home to meet Mom and Dad. When Jan read this, he nearly gagged.

The surviving girls kept to themselves for the rest of that day. Alone in his townhouse, Jan put on shorts and a tee shirt and began to plot out his moves for the remainder of the contest. He had two major problems, assuming he survived a romantic dinner with another man: where to go on his getaway with Jason, and how to manufacture a family to meet with his prospective fiancé.

At four o’clock, no closer to an answer to either problem, Jan changed into a sports bra and jogging shorts and laced up his sneakers for a long run. A combination of reduced calorie intake and an aggressive exercise program had enabled him to get down to his ideal weight for a woman, and he was determined to take off another pound before his big dinner with Jason so he could enjoy the meal. There you go again, thinking just like a girl, he said to himself as he went outside and bumped smack into Becca. “Hey,” he said.

Becca was just returning from a swim, and her long brown hair was slicked straight back. Without makeup, her chiseled nose and high cheekbones gave her face a purity that Jan regarded with a twinge of envy. She asked him to walk along with her, and when they got to her townhouse, she pulled him inside and closed the door. Neither spoke as they tore off each other’s clothes and tumbled into bed, making sweet love again and again until it was almost time for dinner.

“So much for my jog,” Jan sighed as he strapped on his bra.

“You got a good workout,” Becca giggled. “When’s your big date?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Do you think you can pull it off?”

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Let me give you a little tip. From a girl who’s been on a few more dates with guys than you have. Take the initiative by asking him questions that make him do most of the talking.”

“So he can’t ask me any questions about myself? Good idea.”

“Well, that’s part of it, although you’re a good little liar and you can probably get away with whatever you dream up. But there’s another reason. By making him talk about himself, you’ll make him feel important and wanted. Guys like that. And they like girls who make them feel that way.”

“Becca, I’m not trying to get Jason to fall for me.”

“Sweetheart, that is exactly what you are trying to do! In fact, that’s the only reason you’ve gotten this far. Look at the way you dressed up this morning, making the rest of us look like hags. Don’t tell me you’re not in this thing to win.”

“Sure, I want to win, but I don’t want him to fall in love with me. I’m a guy, remember?”

“Oh, I remember. But you remember this: the only way you get to win this thing is to make him fall in love with you.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Then don’t let him fall in love with you.”

“You know what? I think you’re jealous.”

“You’re damn right I’m jealous. Every woman in America is going to be jealous of you when they find out that you’re really a guy. God help you if you win this thing. They’ll probably castrate you on television. Now that would be a good reality show!”

“Just don’t tell my agent. If he thought it would get ratings, he’d try to talk me into it.”

“All you have to do is take a dive, Sis. Hit the wine as hard as you can and throw up on Jason at dinner tomorrow night.”

“You just want to knock me out of the competition.”

“You’re damn right I do! You scare me more than the real girls.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they’re all gonna be nervous as hell, and probably make idiots of themselves. Put them up against a professional actor who looks like you do in a cocktail dress, and they haven’t got a chance.”

“So what? Each girl I knock out of the competition is one less girl for you to compete with.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“I don’t get it.”

“What could be more humiliating than to lose this thing to a guy?”

* * *

Jan was up early the following morning for his makeover and shopping excursion. Dressed in a simple shirtdress and flats, he joined the remaining girls for breakfast. Gloria was regaling them about her dinner date with Jason the night before.

"He was so wonderful! We had champagne and caviar, and then some kind of fish soup before the main course. It was delicious! He is so sophisticated," she rambled on, as the other girls hung on every word. All except Becca, who rolled her eyes and sat down next to Jan at an adjoining table.

"One down, five to go," Becca said. "No way Jason's going to want to spend another minute with that airhead."

"You're wicked," Jan said as he munched on his English muffin. "Still think I should blow it tonight?"

"As I matter of fact, I've reconsidered my entire strategy. I'm not afraid of you now, in fact I want you to make it into the final three. Let Jason get the shock of his life when he tries to hit on you during your overnight getaway."

"Where are you going to take him? If you make it into the final three, I mean," Jan asked her.

"Vegas, baby! How about you?"

"It's a big problem."

"Hey, I know, how about San Francisco? You could have a nice dinner on Castro Street, take in a drag show, then lure him back to your hotel after you've softened him up."

"That's real nice, Becca, but you know what? You’ve just given me an idea on how to solve my other problem.”

“What other problem?”

“Taking him home to Mom and Dad.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re not gonna get that far.”

Jan caught a wave from Andrea Messenger, who was pointing at her watch to signal that it was time to leave for his escapade in Beverly Hills. “I’m off to get beautiful,” he told Becca as he picked up his purse. “Don’t count me out just yet.”

* * *

Three hours later, Jan emerged from a chic salon on Canon Drive, turning heads as he returned to his waiting stretch limousine. His hair was now ash blonde, a few shades lighter than his natural color, his skin was radiant, and his makeup and nails were perfect. Even his pedicured feet looked feminine. He had gently but firmly refused a massage, claiming doctor’s orders because of chronic back soreness, and if the salon staff guessed his true identity, they kept it to themselves.

He was almost embarrassed to walk into Rodeo Drive’s trendiest boutique in his drab shirtdress, but the manager greeted him at the door, and the ubiquitous camera crew from the network was there to capture his search for the dress that might win Jason’s heart. Jan gushed over each of the manager’s suggestions, finally settling on a slinky blue number with spaghetti straps and a long slit up one side. He had never worn a long dress before, and he wasn’t even sure he’d know how to walk or sit down in it, but it was so beautiful, he had to try it on. Unbuttoning his shirtdress in the dressing room, he stepped into his selection and pulled it up, marveling at how the expensive fabric clung to his body like a second skin. As soon as he saw himself in it, he knew that he had just taken the competition up to a whole new level.

The rest of the afternoon was consumed with finding the perfect pair of strappy heels and a matching clutch purse, a strapless push-up bra, and complementary lingerie to complete his outfit. After a visit to a famous jewelry store which had made arrangements with the network to loan each of the girls an assortment of diamond jewelry, his final acquisition was an expensive French perfume. When he returned to the Girls’ House late in the afternoon, he went straight to his room and tried to take a nap, tossing and turning in anticipation of the night to come. After he finally drifted off, he dreamed that he was a girl getting ready for her first date, fussing over what to wear and how to fix her hair.

* * *

Bootlegged videos of the episode of “The Bachelor” featuring Jan’s dinner date with Jason have become the hottest links on YouTube, continuing to rise in popularity with each attempt by the network to squelch them for copyright infringement. From the standpoint of sheer acting ability, nothing seen on television over the last decade can come close to Jan’s performance that night.

The tape begins with the valet of an exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant opening the door to Jan’s stretch limousine, and a lovely leg emerging through the slit in his dress as he gracefully alights from the vehicle. A kiss on the cheek from the waiting Jason, who squires him into the restaurant, Jan’s arm through his as the couple is escorted to a quiet booth. The surrounding tables were cleared out to make room for the film crews, allowing for three different camera angles as Jason and Jan got to know each other for the first time.

Following Becca’s suggestion, Jan tried to steer the conversation to Jason: his boyhood, his interests, his past loves, his career. Jan deftly deflected all questions about his girlhood and past boyfriends, always coming back to Jason and his hopes and aspirations. The more Jason talked about himself, the more he seemed to be fascinated by his date.

At one point, he asked Jan point blank about his family. “My dad died in a car crash when I was a little girl, and I was raised by my mom,” Jan replied sadly, and Jason quickly turned the conversation towards happier things. All he was able to pry out of his date about her mythical life was that she was a part-time actress and model in Los Angeles, who lived alone and had remained close to her mother. The television audience was falling in love with her along with Jason.

Jan limited himself to two glasses of wine, keeping his wits about him as the evening drew to a close. While they lingered over cappuccinos, he felt Jason’s hand slide against his thigh, safely encased in his long dress. Out of sight of the cameras, he moved his hand under the booth and held it over Jason’s, sliding it up a few inches before he squeezed it. The hidden gesture was enough for Jason, who raised Jan’s hand and kissed it as America swooned.

When it was finally time to go, Jason escorted Jan to his waiting limousine, and awkwardly kissed him on the cheek. Suddenly Jan stood on his tiptoes and gave Jason a soft kiss, smack on the lips. He brushed Jason’s nose with a manicured finger and said, “Thanks for a great time. Whoever you select is one lucky girl.” Jason stood and stared as Jan got back into his limousine and was driven away.

As soon as he was alone in the limousine, Jan began to shake uncontrollably. It was a catharsis after almost three hours of unrelenting pressure, and he rummaged through the liquor cabinet and poured himself a straight bourbon. Ignoring the stares from the driver in the rear-view mirror, he sipped it gratefully on the way back to the Girls’ House, although he took the precaution of opening the window and tossing his empty glass out into some bushes before they pulled up the driveway. Several of the girls were waiting up for him when he walked into the clubhouse, but he ignored them and went straight to his room.

He was kicking off his heels when he heard someone behind him. Startled, he turned around to find Becca lounging on his bed, naked under the covers. “Have fun tonight, Missy?”

“Now that it’s over, yes, I think I did.”

“Hmmm…I think you’re starting to like this.”

“I guess I thrive on competition.”

“Not that, I mean the girl stuff. Look at yourself. Don’t you think it’s a little scary?”

“It’s only a game, remember?”

“And you honestly think you’re gonna be able to give all this up when it’s over?”

“Sure. I told you already, I never wanted to become a woman.”

“Maybe not, but will you be able to give up being a girl?”

He looked at her cross-eyed as he peeled off his dress. “What do you mean?”

“Jan, you’ve been given a glimpse of something that half the population never sees. In fact, more than half, because most girls don’t look anywhere near as good as you do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What I’m talking about is this: there is nothing in this world more fun than being a pretty girl. And you love it. Every little thing you do screams ‘I love being a girl’. If you can’t see that, you’re not only fooling Jason and a national television audience, you’re fooling yourself as well.”

He sat down next to her on the bed and stroked her long brown hair. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m digging this, way more than I should. But this is like a total fantasy existence. When it’s over, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this.”

“I know that. Who’d want all the baggage that comes along with being a woman? Right now, you’ve got the best of both worlds.”

“And you’re the best part of it.”

They kissed, and she teased him about his breath. “Was Jason trying to get you drunk? You taste like whisky.”

“I poured myself a long one in the car on the way back.”

“How very unladylike.”

“I’ll show you unladylike.” He wrestled her down, and she pulled off his bra and panties. When she removed his gaffe, his penis sprang to attention, and she rolled over on top of him and straddled him, humping him like he was the girl. Once again, they came together, over and over, only this time they stayed in bed and talked all night.

* * *

Jan was grateful for the hiatus which followed his big date. While each of the girls was given her shot at Jason, the others all enjoyed a one-day pass outside the compound. Jan knew exactly how he had to spend his free day.

He was a few minutes late for his lunch meeting in West Hollywood with Hap Arnhold. Wearing dark glasses in an attempt to overcome his new celebrity status, he found Hap holding forth at his regular table. Jan was wearing the same sundress that had wowed the crowd at Dodger Stadium, but most of the men in the restaurant paid no attention to him. Virtually all of them were gay.

“Look at you,” Hap said proudly. “No wonder Andrea Messenger is shitting bricks.”

Jan waited until a waiter took their orders. “Have you been watching the show?”

“Religiously, along with the rest of the country. You’re knocking them dead.”

“When does the next episode get aired?”

“Next week. You should know. It’s the big date show, when Jason has dinner each night with a different girl. How did yours go?”

“That’s why I called you. It went great. No, better than great.” Jan looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Hap, I’ve been a guy most of my life, and I can tell when a guy has the hots for a girl. This guy wants to get into my pants.”

“Along with every other red-blooded boy in America. So what’s the problem?”

“The problem, Hap, is that if I make it into the next round, I have to spend the night with him. And if by some miracle I can make it through that, I have to bring him home to Mom and Dad.”

“They’re gonna love this in Omaha.”

“Fuck you!” Jan shouted in his girlish voice, attracting stares from the nearby tables. “Fuck you and this fucking idea of yours. There’s no way I’m going to drag my family into this freak show. It would kill them.”

“All right, all right already, calm down,” Hap said. “We’ll think of something.”

“I already have, Mom.”

“What?”

The waiter returned with their orders, and Jan waited until they were alone again. “You heard me right, I called you Mom. So far as Jason knows, I was raised by a single mother in Los Angeles. If he’s dense enough to put me in the finals, you’ll have no trouble fooling him too.”

“Now hold on. I’m a respected figure in this town. You can’t expect me to parade around in a dress and pretend to be your mother on national television.”

Jan leaned forward, and his voice was deadly serious. “That is exactly what I expect. You wrote my contract. If I make it into the finals, there’s an extra hundred thousand in it for me, and with your obscene commission, you’ll get a big slice of that. Besides, you got me into this mess. You owe me.”

“No way. Find yourself another mother,” Hap said with finality.

“Then you leave me no choice.” Jan put his purse on the table and patted his mouth with his napkin. After freshening his lipstick, he stood up to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Straight to Andrea Messenger’s office. I’m going to walk off the show.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Try me.”

“They’ll sue you!”

“I’ll go back to Omaha. At least then my family won’t disown me.”

“Think of me! I’ll never work in this town again.”

“What a shame.”

“Jan, please!”

Jan spun on his heel and headed towards the door.

“All right! All right! I’ll do it!” Hap cried.

Jan turned around and returned to Hap’s table. All eyes in the restaurant were on him as he sat down and kissed Hap on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”

* * *

Jan was waiting up for Becca when she returned from her date with Jason that evening. “How did it go?” he asked her as he watched her undress.

“It was dreamy, just like your date. He’s really a nice guy, don’t you think?”

“Do you have feelings for him?”

“Now it’s your turn to be jealous! Of course I do. He’s a hunk.”

“So it’s just physical?”

Becca waltzed around the room in her bra and panties, pretending that she was dancing with her Prince Charming. “I dunno, Jan. It’s nice spending time with a guy who doesn’t wear lipstick and nylons.”

He got up to leave. “Where you going?”

“Back to reality. Thanks for the cold shower.”

“Hey, I was only kidding, you know that.”

“Were you?” he said as he opened the door.

“Please, come back.”

One dramatic exit was enough for the day. Jan closed the door behind him and returned to his room.

* * *

Jan and Becca avoided each other for the rest of the week. In fact, the tension between all of the girls was palpably higher as the taping of the next rose ceremony approached. Finally, the day after the last quarterfinalist had her dinner with Jason, the girls were herded into two limousines and taken back to the mansion in Palos Verdes. Even Gloria was silent during the forty-minute drive.

Once again, they were assembled at the foot of the spiral staircase, and once again Jason pronounced their fates. Gloria, Becca and Jan were each presented with a rose. Two of the other girls broke down, and the third gave Jason the finger off-camera.

The three winners were ushered into one of the limousines along with Andrea Messenger, who had a clipboard on her knees as they headed back to the Girls’ House. If she was concerned about the upcoming train wreck between Jason and Jan, she gave no indication. “Okay, ladies, you’ve had almost a week to decide where to take Jason on your overnight getaway. Becca, you first. Where to?”

“I want to stay in one of those high roller villas at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.”

“Done. How about you, Gloria?”

Gloria, who had kept uncharacteristically quiet, closed her eyes and smiled. “I want the ‘Pretty Woman’ suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. That’s where they filmed the movie, right?”

“No problem.” She turned to Jan with trepidation. “And you, Jan?”

“We’re going to hire a sport fishing boat in San Diego and go deep sea fishing off the coast of Baja.”

“What?” all three of them asked in unison.

“You heard me. Jason told me he loves to fish, and I’ve got a little sailor dress that I’ve been dying to wear.”

“Okay, if that’s what you really want,” Andrea said, wondering how they would be able to support a camera crew on board a fishing boat. Gloria started talking up a blue streak about her plans for her romantic evening with Jason. When Jan looked over at Becca, she nodded and gave him a conspiratorial wink, as if to say, “I don’t know what your game is, but I’m going to figure it out.”

Gloria’s getaway was scheduled first, followed by Becca and Jan. When they returned to the Girls’ House, Gloria went off to pack her things while Becca and Jan had a light lunch together.

“So much for your theory about Gloria,” Jan said to break the ice. Things were still cool between them.

“New fact. Changed the equation.”

“What fact?”

“Gloria gave Jason a blow job during dinner the other night.”

Jan choked on a crouton. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he said as he washed it down with iced tea.

“Nope, it’s true.”

“Did she tell you?”

“Are you kidding? I learned it from one of the camera guys I was flirting with before my date.”

“No way.”

“Oh, yes. When she came back from the ladies room during a break in the taping, she ducked under the tablecloth and crawled under the booth. Nobody saw it except the guy who told me, and he’s pretty cool. He said Jason sat up with a start, and then his eyes got real big all of a sudden. Next thing he knew, Jason had this shit-eating grin on his face, and Gloria came out from under the table looking like a cat who just swallowed a canary.”

“You girls.”

“Isn’t it gross? But you gotta admit, it worked for her.”

“I can’t believe Jason is that superficial.”

“Dear, sweet, innocent Jan! Are you sure you’re really a guy? I think you’ve been wearing skirts and dresses too long, Missy.”

“Okay, so she put out. Jason can have any girl he wants. Why pick her?”

“So he can get laid tonight, dummy. That’s why. Don’t you realize what this means?”

“That Jason is going to get fucked tonight, I guess.”

“Guys are so dense sometimes,” she sighed. “It means you and I are headed for the finals. Jason wants to get his rocks off tonight, and Gloria is a sure bet for that. It takes the pressure off him with us. By the way, nice move with the fishing trip. Are you going to jump overboard when he discovers you’re really a guy?”

* * *

Becca and Jan kept to themselves the next day, and when Gloria returned from her overnight, there was scarcely time to grill her before Becca and Jason were off to Las Vegas. All they learned was that Jason was wonderful, the suite was amazing, and Gloria had the best sex of her entire life.

Jan felt downright depressed after Becca departed with Jason. Who was he jealous of, Becca or Jason? As he lolled around his room, listlessly packing a nightgown for his night on the boat, he kept going over the things she had said to him, and the gulf that had formed between them. “It’s nice spending time with a guy who doesn’t wear lipstick and nylons… you’ve been wearing skirts and dresses too long, Missy.”

And that was before their big blowup. In order to charter a fishing boat in San Diego in time to make it out to deep water during daylight hours, they would have to get up early tomorrow, a fact which had infuriated Becca when she found out about it just before she left for Las Vegas. She complained bitterly to Andrea Messenger that it was all a plot to cut short her getaway with Jason, but Andrea had explained that they had to stay on schedule. Becca was still seething when she stormed out of the compound.

Jan finished packing and sipped a glass of wine as he soaked in the tub before shaving his legs one last time. Tomorrow would finish him, unless his cockamamie plan worked. He had another glass of wine before he fell asleep, once again dreaming that he was a girl, this time on the eve of her wedding and honeymoon. He woke up with a start when the alarm told him it was 4:00 am.

Jan wasn’t kidding about the little sailor dress. It was navy blue, with white piping on the hem and collar, and a red kerchief that he tied loosely around his neck. Bare legs and topsiders completed the nautical theme. When he joined Jason at Santa Monica airport for the quick trip in the network’s jet to San Diego, he detected exhaustion on Jason’s face. But he seemed to perk up when he saw his date.

“Wow. You’re not going to catch any fish dressed like that, but you sure look cute,” Jason said as he strapped himself in beside Jan.

“You can catch the fish, big boy, and I’ll make sure your beer stays cold. Deal?”

“Deal. Man, was I stoked when they told me about this. How did you know I liked sport fishing?”

“You told me, silly, don’t you remember?”

“I probably told you a lot of things I don’t remember.”

The sleek jet turned onto the runway and blasted into the sky. “How was your date with Becca?” Jan asked above the roar of the engines.

Jason seemed surprised by the question. “Uh, we’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“Sorry. I thought you liked my honesty.”

That threw him. “Well, I do, but I mean, that wouldn’t be fair to Becca, would it?”

“Who says I have to play fair?”

“Look, this is almost over, and I really like you, okay? Let’s not blow it now.”

Jan gave him his sweetest smile. “You just passed the test.”

“What test?”

“Jason, this whole thing has been totally weird, but the thing that’s worried me the most was that the whole world would learn about whatever might happen between us. It’s like we’re in such a goldfish bowl. If you’d told me about your date with Becca, I’d be afraid we had no secrets.”

Jason frowned. “Where do you get off testing me?”

“Jason, if we’re going to make it, it’s going to have to be for real. No relationship can survive if one person is totally dependent on the other. I’m sorry, but I just can’t sit here and say whatever you want me to say, and do whatever you want me to do, in the hopes that you will select me over the other girls. If I did, and you picked me, we wouldn’t last five minutes once we got away from this circus. That’s what this is supposed to be all about, isn’t it?”

Jason reached down and squeezed Jan’s knee. “You know something? You’re amazing. Not just pretty, but you’ve got a real head on your shoulders. The only other one who comes close to you is Becca. There, how’s that for honesty?”

Jan reached forward and kissed him on the cheek. “That’s what I like in a man.”

They pressed their heads together as they looked out the window at San Diego’s spectacular harbor, then they were on the ground and speeding towards Shelter Island for their rendezvous with the charter boat. The Silver Bonito was just as Jan had imagined, small and sturdy, her decks crowded with fishing gear and one very uptight camera crew. Andrea Messenger was waiting for them at dockside.

“Okay, kids, here she is,” Andrea said. “The beer and the bait are already on board, and the Captain has promised to cook whatever you catch for dinner tonight. We’ll see you back here tomorrow morning.”

Jan pulled a floppy hat out of his canvas shoulder bag and sat down on the afterdeck across from Jason, who was clearly in heaven. As Jan had anticipated, the roar of the engines made small talk impossible, and for the rest of the afternoon they bounded over the open ocean until they were on top of a school of albacore. Jason hooked one almost immediately, and Jan cheered him as he battled with it, perspiring in the hot sun. Jan rubbed sunscreen on his muscular arms and thick neck, keeping him supplied with cold beer as he reeled in fish after fish.

The sun was low on the horizon when the Captain headed back towards San Diego. They would drop anchor just outside the harbor, Jason and Jan sharing a cramped cabin with a toilet and shower while the camera crew retreated below. Jason was clearly exhausted as they watched the sun dip into the Pacific during the long run back towards the harbor, and Jan massaged his aching shoulders and kept him plied with beer. When they finally dropped anchor, the Captain served up a delicious dinner of grilled albacore, which Jason wolfed down while Jan picked at his plate.

Eventually, Jason noticed Jan’s lack of appetite. “Something wrong?” he asked.

Jan nodded his head and started to cry.

“What is it?”

“I’m seasick.”

“You are? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were having such a great time, I didn’t want to spoil your day.”

“Jan, I’m so sorry.”

“Please, don’t be. It was my stupid idea. And you know what? Even though I feel totally lousy, this has been one of the greatest days of my life.”

Jason led Jan to the bedroom and tucked him in under the covers after he took off his dress. “You go to sleep, it’s the best thing for you.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Hell, I’ll be fine, the boys are playing poker down below, I’ll go take some money off them and then sleep in a hammock under the stars. Go to sleep, baby. I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed Jan on the forehead and quietly closed the cabin door behind him.

* * *

Andrea Messenger paced nervously back and forth on the dock as the Silver Bonito swung into her berth. There was no sign of Jan or Jason on deck. Were they even speaking to each other? Would Jason fly off the handle when he saw Andrea? Under his contract, he had no way out of the show, but that didn’t mean he had to be pleasant about it. How in the world had she let Hap Arnhold talk her into this? At least she had covered her rear end with the studio executives. But they could still make her a scapegoat.

Suddenly Jan and Jason emerged from a hatchway, laughing and joking about something. Jan was still wearing the blue sailor dress, and Jason looked like he had slept in his tee shirt and cutoffs. What the hell was going on?

“Good morning,” Andrea shouted at them. “Have a good time?”

Jason pointed to the stack of albacore waiting to be offloaded. “The best!” he shouted back.

“How about you, Jan?” she asked after the Captain cut the engines. “Everything okay?”

Jan knew that the cameras were rolling. “It was wonderful,” he said with a sigh. My man caught our dinner, and then he tucked me into bed. It was every girl’s dream.”

The cameras caught them getting back into their limousine for the short drive to the airport. When they were alone, they laughed about the look an Andrea’s face. “I don’t know what was eating her, but you’re quite the little actress,” Jason said.

“You have no idea,” Jan replied. When they got back on the plane, Jason nodded off as soon as they strapped themselves in, and Jan knew that he was home free.

* * *

Having slept for nine hours in the cozy little cabin, Jan felt and looked terrific when he returned to the Girls' House, a striking contrast to the bedraggled appearance of the other girls who had preceded him. Becca eyed him warily as he stopped by the dining room for a cup of coffee before returning to his room.

"Still wearing the same dress, I see," Becca said. "You're going to give us all a bad reputation."

Jan faked a yawn. "I was too tired to change. Besides, Jason really likes me in this dress."

"How many times did you do it?" Gloria asked.

"The nerve of you!" Jan said. "What makes you think I'm that kind of girl?"

"Come off it, Sister," Becca said. Suddenly Jan was afraid that Becca might spill the beans. It would be a smart move, which would simultaneously knock her chief rival out of the competition, and endear her to Jason forever when he realized what she had done for him.

Gloria saved him. "I bet they screwed all night, after Jason's night with you. They tell me Jason lost his ass at the tables, which must have put him in a terrific mood, then you guys had to get up in the middle of the night to fly back to LA. He had to be horny."

"Tell us about your evening,” Becca retorted. "Did you blow him under the table again in the dining room, or did he take you straight to bed so you could suck him off while he had room service?"

Becca and Gloria had to be forcibly separated by Andrea Messenger and one of the gophers as Jan ducked out of the clubhouse and returned to his room.

* * *

The girls rode in stony silence to the penultimate rose ceremony, which was mercifully short. Jason selected Becca and Jan, after thanking Gloria for all the good times. She seemed genuinely shocked when he dumped her, and before she was led away by network staffers, she tearfully thanked Jason and wished the last two girls well. Jan reckoned that she was angling for a shot at “The Bachelorette”. Becca wrote her off as a ridiculous bimbo.

Gloria was whisked off in a separate limo, leaving Becca and Jan to ride back to the lonely Girls' House with Andrea Messenger. Arrangements were already underway for Jason to meet their families, and each of the girls was given a date and time for the film crews to show up at their parents' doors. Becca, who was from the Chicago, would go first, and her large Italian family was already gearing up for the spectacle.

Needless to say, Andrea Messenger was more than apprehensive about Jan's situation. She accepted at face value his description of his childhood, substituting his true sex for the girl in the yarn he had spun for Jason. Would his mother welcome her son and his boyfriend with open arms? Was America ready for that?

Things had gotten way out of hand, and all Andrea could do now was hang on tight and pray to God that Jason had the good sense to choose Becca. Then again, she knew full well that if he did propose to Jan, the sensational revelation, when leaked to the media before the airing of the final episode, would propel their ratings into the stratosphere. A “win-win”, the network suits called it, but for Andrea, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

* * *

The Girls’ House was deserted after Becca and the crew left for Chicago, leaving Jan alone with plenty of time to think. “The Bachelor” had consumed his existence for months, and it was time to start planning his life after the fantasy ended.

It had become his routine to begin each morning with a trip to the medicine cabinet for his daily dose of premarin. There were only three pills left in the bottle, which brought home to him the wild ride that he had been through, and the enormous changes that lay ahead for him.

Becca had been right. What started as a game had turned into much more. Jan had always been honest with himself, which was one of the reasons he had gone for Hap’s crazy idea when it became clear that his acting career was heading south. Now, as he surveyed his naked body in the bathroom mirror, he contemplated what he had done to himself. Slowly but surely, he was turning himself into a girl.

It wasn’t just the hormones. His voice, his gestures, even the way he thought were becoming more and more feminine. He knew that he was dangerously close to the point of no return, and it scared him that he even considered the possibility. Scared him because, deep down inside, he knew that Becca was right. He was enjoying this way too much.

How else to explain the thrill he had experienced yesterday during another shopping trip on the network to select his outfits for the rest of the show? It was only to a shopping center in Santa Monica, but the cheers and encouragement he had received from the people passing by were astonishing. “You go girl!” from the women, and “I love you!” from the men. Jan was blushing by the time he got to Talbot’s, and he lingered with the salesgirls, gossiping about Jason and the other girls on the show. They made him try on dress after dress, complementing him on how sensational he looked as they searched for just the right one. When he finally left, laden down with packages, they gave him a standing ovation, clutching the autographs which he had written for them in a girlish hand.

One of his new outfits was laid out on the bed for him to wear that morning. He was going to meet with Hap to rehearse their plans for the upcoming meeting with Jason. Jan knew that the event would be a farce. In fact, he was counting on it. Something drastic would have to happen to throw his romance with Jason off the rails before it was too late. The spectacle of Hap Arnhold masquerading as his mother was just the thing.

Jan shampooed his hair and shaved his legs and underarms in the shower. He no longer needed to shave his face, another sign of his advancing femininity. After blow-drying his hair, he experimented to see if it was finally long enough to pull back into a ponytail. It was just the right length, so he fastened it with a scrunchie and tucked a few loose strands away with bobby pins.

Jan hadn’t had an erection since his last night with Becca, another worrying side effect from the hormones. He tucked his limp penis easily between his legs and stepped into a pair of panties, noticing with concern that the gaffe was no longer necessary. He was even more alarmed when he put on his Wonder bra, which was completely filled out by his emerging breasts.

Back to the bathroom, where he studied his face in the makeup mirror on the vanity. His eyebrows needed a bit of tweezing, which he took care of quickly, and then he moisturized his skin before applying his makeup. He was using less and less these days, sometimes just a little eyeliner and lipstick, although this morning he took his time and experimented with a different eye shadow and mascara. He brushed some blusher over his foundation, and finished off with a pink shade of lip gloss. His new look was softer than before, and very pretty.

He returned to the bedroom and surveyed the new clothes he had laid out for himself. A simple wool dress, which would come just to his knees and tie in the back with a bow. A black slip with a froth of lace at the hem. Black skimmer flats and tights. All for an off-camera meeting with his agent. What in the world was happening to him?

As he sat on the edge of the bed and slowly eased the delicate tights up his smooth legs, he was hopelessly torn. “Get out of here! Take off these ridiculous clothes and get off those hormones before it’s too late!” part of him was shouting. But another voice, a seductive one, was saying, “This is so much fun, and it feels so good! C’mon now, be honest. Don’t you love it?” As Jan shimmied into his slip and zipped up his new dress, he knew which voice was winning, and it terrified him.

* * *

Becca’s warm and wonderful family smothered Jason. Her mother gorged him with homemade pasta while her father kept his glass full of Chianti he’d made in the garage, and her four brothers one-upped each other with their knowledge of sports and rock groups. Becca sat with a stricken look on her face throughout the ordeal. By the time Jason finally escaped, he was totally exhausted

He had two old friends from college in Chicago, and he managed to slip away from his entourage to meet them at a sports bar on Clark Street. Unrecognizable in his Cubs hat and sunglasses, Jason slowly unwound as the guys caught him up on old times and ribbed him about his sudden notoriety.

“So who’s it gonna be? The blonde or the brunette?” one of them asked.

“Come on, guys, I can’t tell you that. It’s in my contract.”

“Hey, you can tell us. I bet it’s the chick from Chicago. She’s hot, man.”

“My girlfriend tells me it’s gonna be the blonde,” the other one said. “She says you’re like putty in her hands.”

“Big step, bro,” the first chimed in. “Which one of us gets to be the best man?”

“Get real. I’m not gonna marry anybody.”

“Hey, time out. I thought that was the deal here. Aren’t you supposed to propose to one of them?”

“Give me a break. That’s just show business, guys.” He said it as if they were two rubes wandering around Beverly Hills with maps, looking for the homes of the stars.

“I don’t get it,” one of them persisted. “Those are two great girls. Don’t you want one of them?

“I’m a celebrity, dude. I can get any piece of ass in America.”

“Then how are you gonna get out of this?”

“I’ll flip a coin, give one of the broads a rose, take her out a few times, and then split. No big deal.”

* * *

Jan’s brief meeting with Hap reassured him that there was no way he was going to win the competition. One look at Jan’s “mother” in her fright wig and garish makeup would send Jason screaming into the night.

Hap had managed to redecorate his small house off Laurel Canyon into domestic respectability, removing some of the more shocking artwork and hiding his live-in boyfriend at a friend’s place for the duration. The same makeup artist who had presided over Jan’s transformation, sworn once again to secrecy, had gone to work on Hap. The challenge had been to create a woman unrecognizable as Hap Arnhold, and in this he had succeeded beyond Hap’s wildest expectations. The final product was a cross between Peg Bundy and Phyllis Diller on a bad hair day. At least Hap had shaved off his mustache.

Back at the Girls’ House, Jan could tell from the look on Becca’s face when she returned from Chicago that things had not gone well for her. Hesitantly, he knocked on her door, and when she opened it, it was obvious that she had been crying. She closed the door behind him and slumped down on the couch.

“You’re in,” she said. “My big fat Italian family blew it for me. All you gotta do is show up in a dress and pick up your rose.”

Jan sat down beside her and started to laugh. Dressed in shorts and a baggy tee shirt, he looked like a girl, but it was a guy’s laugh, deep and hearty.

“Go ahead, yuk it up, you twerp. Wait till Jason finds out you’re really a guy. Or have you decided to go all the way with this?”

Jan was no longer laughing. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Becca, I’m really worried.”

“About losing this thing, or winning it?”

“I’m not talking about the damn show. I’m worried about what’s happening to me. What you said was true. I’m becoming more and more like a girl, to the point where I can’t even remember what it was like to be a guy. I can feel my old life slipping away, and it scares the hell out of me.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“I don’t know what I want anymore.” Now Jan started to cry, real tears, and Becca held him as he started to shake uncontrollably.

“It’s okay, Jan, let it all out. Tell me how I can help you.”

Jan knew the answer, but he was afraid to ask her. Not afraid of what she might say. Afraid of what he might find out.

“Come on, Jan, tell me. Please.”

“It’s not fair to you.”

“You really are starting to think like a girl. Tell me what you want, dammit.”

“I want you.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, then she reached over and pulled off his tee shirt. Becca kissed him again, gently, while she started to unfasten his bra. As Jan responded to her, he thought he could feel himself becoming aroused. Miraculously, after months of estrogen therapy, his body still wanted hers, and as they played with each other’s breasts, his manhood slowly stiffened. When he knew he was ready, he pushed her down and took her like a man.

They stayed in bed all afternoon, talking about anything but “The Bachelor”. When Jan finally returned to his room, he washed the last of the premarin pills down the drain.

* * *

For slapstick comedy, nothing in the annals of network television can rival the madcap meeting between Jason and Jan’s mother, Happy. As if there were a laugh track, one can actually hear the crews off camera breaking up as they tape the tumultuous segment. Jason’s face is frozen in shock from start to finish.

Happy, dressed in black Capri pants and gold lamᨠslippers, greets Jan and Jason with bear hugs, her enormous breast forms wobbling inside her tight sweater. As she escorts Jason around her home, Jan can be seen holding his sides as Happy improvises about her daily routines as a stay-at-home mom. When they finally sit down to dinner, Happy gushes about Jan’s girlhood, bragging about her daughter’s prowess at ballet, figure skating, finger painting, ad nauseum. “Did you know that Jan sold more Girl Scout cookies than any Brownie in the history of Los Angeles? Imagine, competing against the children of the stars who sold cookies out of their limos! How I wish her dear father was here to see her now, bringing such a fine young man home for dinner. Another piece of fruit?”

Towards the end of the tape, as Jason backs towards the door, Happy tells him, “Don’t believe what they say about daughters turning out like their mothers. My mother was a lovely woman, as delicate as the rose I just know you’ll present to my precious Jan.” Jason and Jan were speechless during the ride back in their limo. The network had to fill the rest of the episode with flashbacks to the early rounds of the competition.

* * *

The big day finally arrived. In order to minimize the possibility of a leak, the final rose ceremony was scheduled to take place a few hours before the episode aired on national television. There would be just enough time for the crew to edit the tape and tee it up for the network feed.

Jan was up early for a long jog before breakfast. Becca was nowhere to be seen. Jan had a quick bite in his shorts and sports bra before returning to his room to change, for the last time, into America’s sweetheart. The tabloids were full of pictures of Jan and Becca, the popular consensus being that Jan had won Jason’s heart on the Silver Bonito. Las Vegas odds makers favored Jan over Becca by 2-1, and office pools around the country gave him a clear edge.

Somehow the knowledge that this was the last time he would ever do this gave Jan bittersweet feelings as he put on his makeup. His blonde hair was long enough now to pin up, and he tied it into a French braid with the help of a few tips Becca had given him the night before. They were inseparable again, a strange combination of lovers and girlfriends, at least until the show ended. When Jan reported the calamity with his bogus mother, Becca had laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks, and when they made love that night, Jan knew that it would probably be for the last time. Tomorrow she would belong to Jason.

He took his time putting on his lingerie and stockings, savoring the sensations one last time. After he put on his dress and heels, he studied himself in the mirror as he reflected on the past few months. The girl looking back at him was a national celebrity now, admired and adored all over the country. He was going to miss her, but not as much as he had missed himself. In a few hours he was going to be Mr. Jan Peterson again, and he couldn’t wait for it to happen.

* * *

Two separate limousines were waiting to take Becca and Jan to their reckoning with Jason in Palos Verdes. When Jan climbed into his, he found Andrea Messenger sitting on the long settee.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Jan,” she said. “You’ve had a heck of a run.”

“Sounds like you think my number is up.”

“To be frank, I hope so. God knows how the country will react if you get the rose, let alone poor Jason.”

“He’s a big boy. And don’t tell me you’re really concerned about him. If you were, you would never have let it get this far.”

“Maybe not. I don’t think any of us expected you to make it this far, Jan. The question now is, how are we going to finish this.”

“Isn’t it up to Jason? Or have you already tipped him off?”

“Believe me, if it were up to me, we’d have already done it. But the powers that be are convinced that it would look worse for us if we rigged this fiasco. All we can do now is try to keep things from spinning out of control.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means this: if Jason chooses Becca, you’re going to go quietly into the night. The identity of the mystery man will be revealed at the very end of the broadcast, after Jason and Becca are safely on their way to paradise.”

“And if he chooses me?”

“Then you’re going to hand him back the rose, tell him you’re really a guy, and get the hell off the stage.”

“Yikes! What happens to me?”

“You get a nice check and thanks for the memories.”

“How about Jason?”

“Like you said, he’s a big boy.”

* * *

Jan was shaking when the crew led him to a gazebo on the mansion grounds overlooking the Pacific Ocean. When Jason suddenly appeared, he had a sad smile on his face, and he started right in on his consolation speech. “Jan, you are an amazing woman, and this has been the hardest decision I ever had to make.” Jan tuned Jason out as he rambled on with his memorized spiel, relieved beyond words that the ordeal was finally over.

When Jason was through, Jan kissed him on the cheek and left in a hurry. If the viewers thought he was heartbroken, so much the better. It would amplify the shock when his identity was exposed at the end of the show.

The drill was for Jan to speed off in his limousine before Jason handed Becca her rose, but for some reason he felt like sticking around. When the network staffers tried to urge him into the car, he backed them off with a few tart words. After all, he was still a celebrity, and they acquiesced when he told them he needed to get some air before heading back to the compound.

Meanwhile, Becca was waiting at the gazebo for Jason to make his entrance. When they kept her waiting for Jason to talk to Jan, she knew she must have won, and her emotions were a jumble of excitement, relief, and genuine happiness.

Then Jason materialized with a rose in his hand, and she waited for him to tell her why he chose her. But as she listened to his well-rehearsed speech, professing his eternal love and devotion, it was clear to her that he hadn’t even written it. He was reciting it like a catechism, empty words spoken with feigned emotion by a bad actor.

As he neared the climax of his canned proposal, Jason got down on one knee, and Becca caught something out of the corner of her eye, moving in the distance over Jason’s shoulder. It was Jan, walking slowly around the grounds, looking up at her in despair. Suddenly Becca knew what she had to do.

“What a crock,” she said.

Jason stopped in mid-sentence, stunned. Andrea Messenger, standing beside one of the camera crews, looked like she might have a stroke at any moment. The silence was deafening.

“What did you say?” Jason finally asked. He looked helplessly over at Andrea. This was not in the script.

“I said, ‘What a crock.’ Get off the ground.”

Jason stood up uncertainly and managed to ask, “What’s going on?”

“I’m dumping you, Jason. You don’t love me. And you know it.”

Jason turned on her with sudden fury. “Screw you. I really wanted Jan anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Well, get this: Jan is the guy.”

“What?”

“She’s a guy, you idiot! Your dream girl is a guy. And you’re not getting him, because he’s mine.”

With that, she threw down her rose and started running across the lawn towards Jan, who was watching it all in disbelief. When he realized what was happening, he started running towards Becca, and when he caught her in mid-stride, he lifted her off the ground, spinning her around and around as he hugged her and kissed her. The cameras kept rolling as they raced across the lawn to Jan’s limousine and scrambled inside. Jason stood rooted to the ground as they squealed down the driveway and disappeared.

* * *

LOS ANGELES: Last night’s episode of “The Bachelor” was the most watched program in television history, according to data released by Nielsen analysts. The surprise finale, in which the winning contestant ran off with the runner-up, is reported to have enraged the program’s sponsors, who have been besieged by complaints from around the country. Hollywood agent Hap Arnhold confirmed that Jan Peterson, the out-of-work actor who disguised himself as a woman to get into the series, has been swamped with movie and television offers. Andrea Messenger, executive producer of “The Bachelor”, was not available for comment, and she is believed to have resigned from the network for personal reasons.

* * *

One year later, Jan and a very pregnant Becca were enjoying a late Sunday breakfast beside the pool at their Beverly Hills estate. “Wow,” Becca said, looking up from the book section of the Los Angeles Times. “Andrea Messenger’s tell-all book about ‘The Bachelor’ is number one on the best seller list.”

Jan put down the script he was reading and poured himself another cup of Kona coffee. “Good for her. How are my girls feeling this morning?”

Becca glowed with contentment. “I feel wonderful, and I’m sure your future daughter enjoyed the surprise visit from her Daddy last night.”

“I just find you incredibly beautiful this way.”

“Better get used to it. We’re going to have a big Italian family.”

“Believe me, it’s going to be my pleasure keeping you pregnant.”

“I knew you were a stud when you were able to get it up on estrogen.” She laughed when he swatted her with the script. “What are you reading?”

Jan ran his fingers through his short blonde hair. “Hap sent me the screenplay for ‘The Jessica Project’. You know, the story about an assassin who has to go undercover as a girl.”

“I loved that book. You’d be perfect as Jessica.”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid of getting type-cast.”

“It would be fun seeing you as a girl again. You can wear my clothes for the screen test. Can I help with your makeup?”

“Better watch it. Jason might come looking for me.”

“According to this book review, he’s working as a bartender somewhere in the Valley.”

Jan reached back for the sweet voice that was destined to win him his first Academy Award. “Serves him right for dumping me.”

To avoid getting a pink slip, a lawyer decides to wear one.

Skirting the Law
A [House of Fabulous] Story
Copyright 2004 by Nom de Plume
Reposted 15 Jan 15

Effective January 1, 2004, Assembly Bill 196 amended California's Fair Employment and Housing Act to prohibit discrimination based on a person's perceived identity, appearance or behavior, even if they are different from a person's sex at birth. AB 196 is primarily intended to prohibit discrimination against employees who choose to dress like the opposite sex and or portray the stereotypical characteristics of the opposite sex. Businesses cannot refuse to hire based on cross dressing, neither can they fire, lay off or refuse to give merit raises based on an employee's real or perceived gender.

Charles Bigelow threw the article down on his immaculate mahogany desk and snorted. "What a load of crap," he said as he reached for the phone. "Get whoever's in charge of the legal department these days, and Wallace in Human Resources. And see if you can find a conference room that's available for a meeting in fifteen minutes."

Bigelow's executive assistant knew when the old man was in a bad mood, and today was one of those days. As she flipped through her directory, she wondered what had set him off this time. Another round of disappointing earnings reports? The company's financial problems were no secret, and it was rumored that heads were going to roll in the executive suite if the ship of state didn't turn around soon.

The company's general counsel had quit after a blowup with Bigelow over records destruction, and two of his assistants had already tendered their resignations in the aftermath. She ran her finger down over the scratched out names until she came to Terrence Poindexter, with the words "acting general counsel" penciled in next to his name. Better call him fast before he joined the exodus.

* * *

Bigelow and Helen Wallace were waiting in the conference room when Terrence Poindexter arrived, a few minutes late, carrying a yellow legal pad and a handful of pencils. A back room boy all the way, he was much more comfortable surrounded by a pile of law books than by a room full of corporate executives, and he fidgeted nervously with one of his pencils as he waited for Charles Bigelow to start the meeting. It didn't help that Bigelow seemed to be staring right through him, dissecting him from his pony tail and bow tie to his khakis and Birkenstocks. When Bigelow finally cleared his throat to speak, Terrence almost jumped out of his skin.

"I just learned about the latest insanity from Sacramento," he said, pushing copies of the article across the table. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

Helen skimmed the article while Terrence seemed to be studying it word for word. Please God, let him speak first, she said to herself, knowing Bigelow's penchant for shooting messengers on sight. Her prayer was answered when Terrence put down the article and tried to answer the question. "I don't know what you think it means," he began in his soft lisping voice, "but I can tell you what the legislature intended. Basically, if an employee should decide one day to show up dressed as a member of the opposite sex, the company cannot discriminate against him, or her, as the case may be. The same holds true for job applicants."

"Let me see if I have this straight," Bigelow retorted. "If a three hundred pound man shows up for a job interview in a dress and high heels, are you telling me we have to hire him?"

"No, but you can't base your decision on his appearance."

"As a practical matter," Helen cut in, "we can base our hiring decisions on other criteria, so I think we can work our way around that."

"As long as the paperwork backs us up, you're right," Terrence said. "The bigger problem is with current employees."

"What do you mean?" Bigelow challenged him.

"Well, suppose one day one of our male employees decides to show up in a dress. Under the new law, we can't fire him, and we may even have to make some reasonable accommodations, such as restrooms...."

Bigelow erupted. "Are you telling me that I have to turn our business into a drag show?"

"Well, no sir," Terrence stammered. "For one thing, this may never come up...."

"Are you kidding? We're in San Francisco, for Christ sake. It's only a matter of time before one of those ballerinas in the marketing department decides to come dancing out of the closet!"

"Well, in that case, the law is clear," Terrence said. "We have to accept them and learn to deal with it."

Helen closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to watch. "If I started to run our business based on legal advice like that, we'd go straight down the tubes!" he shouted.

"Based on our latest earnings reports, I'd say we're headed there already," Terrence said, surprising himself as he said it. Helen sat and stared at him with an open mouth.

Bigelow would have loved to fire Terrence on the spot, but lawyers were tricky. The last thing he needed was to be slapped with another wrongful termination suit. His face was beet red when he got out of his chair. "Helen, I'd like to meet with you in my office. Alone."

* * *

Terrence was still shaking when he returned to his small, cluttered office in the bowels of the legal department. He had declined offers to move into the larger offices of his departed colleagues, not wanting the pressure that would come with them, and knowing that such a move would only have been temporary.

It was all academic now, of course. He was toast. Charles Bigelow was probably reviewing his personnel file with Helen right now, scheming to find a bullet-proof way to terminate him. He looked at the article which he'd brought with him from the conference room, and he was about to file it away when the idea entered his mind.

At first, he dismissed it as absurd. What he really needed was enough breathing room to hang onto his job until a new general counsel could come on board, evaluate his qualifications, and protect him from the wrath of Charles Bigelow. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that his career had been hopelessly damaged. What new executive would want to expend valuable political capital defending an employee against his own CEO? No, he had to face reality. His career at Tyrex Industries was finished, and under the severance guidelines which he himself had drawn up for Helen Wallace, he would be entitled to a lousy three months' salary on his way out. That wouldn't keep the wolf from the door very long in a city like San Francisco.

Terrence began to think like a lawyer. If there was no hope of hanging onto his job, the best he could shoot for was some grounds for making his termination a wrongful one. If he could put the company on the defensive by trumping up grounds for a discrimination action, for example, he'd be off to the races. As a white male from an Ivy league law school, Terrence Poindexter wasn't your average plaintiff in a civil rights case. He looked at the article again and smiled to himself when he found the passage he was looking for: "AB 196 is primarily intended to prohibit discrimination against employees who choose to dress like the opposite sex." The plan of action was simplicity itself. But would he have the balls to pull it off?

* * *

After telling Human Resources that he was going home sick, Terrence left the office as quickly as possible. The key to his strategy was to strike first, by putting himself in the position to claim discrimination when his termination notice was received. Knowing Charles Bigelow, he reckoned he had very little time.

Terrence had seen the advertisements many times on his way to and from work on the Muni, and sure enough, he found one of the ubiquitous placards on the back of a park bench. In the past, he had ignored them, but today he took out his cell phone and punched in the number below the pitch: "The House of Fabulous for boys who should have been girls. No assignment too challenging. Complete confidentiality guaranteed. Call today for your own personal makeover." The text was accompanied by a picture of a beautiful girl, evidently a guy, which some vandal had defaced with a mustache and goatee. Terrence went straight to the point when a woman answered the phone.

"I need a personal makeover. Today."

"Oh dear, I'm afraid that won't be possible. We're booked up through the end of the week."

"What do you charge for a makeover?"

"Well, it depends on what you want. We have a menu of services. For an initial transformation, for example, we charge $500. We also offer wardrobe consultation and a complementary shopping service, as well as a host of other options."

"I'll double it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I need a complete makeover, today. Time is of the essence. I'll pay double your standard fee, and pay a percentage on the wardrobe. Please, you've got to help me. I'm desperate."

"If it were just the money, I would have to say no to you. But you do sound desperate, and we are in business to help our customers. If you can stop by at four o'clock, I'll see what we can do. What is your name?"

"Terrence. The stores are open till nine. Will that give us enough time?"

"Goodness. I suppose that depends on what we have to work with."

* * *

Terrence went home to his apartment and tried to think of what he might do to expedite his transformation. He pulled his hair out of its ponytail, and watched with approval as it fell almost to his shoulders. When he took off his clothes, he realized immediately that the first thing he had to do was remove his body hair. All of it.

It took him almost two hours, wearing out razor after razor as he tediously worked his way over his chest, back, legs and arms. There were more than a few cuts, and some places that he just couldn't reach, but by the time he finally rinsed himself off in the shower, the parts that would show were smooth and hairless. He shampooed and conditioned his hair, taking a lot more time than usual drying and brushing it out, before he put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and made sure his wallet was stuffed with cash.

Terrence decided to skip lunch, and he planned to skip dinner as well, even though his stomach was growling. At 5' 9" tall and 150 pounds, he was slim for a guy, but big for a woman. He began to believe that if the House of Fabulous was as good as their advertisements, he actually had a shot at being presentable. As soon as he walked into Tyrex Industries, he would be an object of scorn, but that didn't mean he had to subject himself to ridicule when he was out on the street.

Before leaving his apartment, Terrence placed a call to Gail Chestnut, who was acting as his executive assistant pending the appointment of a new general counsel. Gail was a knockout, but most of the guys in the office had written her off as a lipstick lesbian after she turned down their advances. Terrence thought she was incredibly hot, but as a company lawyer, he knew better than to mix sex with the workplace, so he hadn't even tried. "Gail, I need to ask you a favor," he said when he got her on the phone.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Poindexter? I hope you don't have the flu."

"I'm feeling much better, thank you. I'll be in tomorrow for sure. Gail, remember how the office manager suggested that I move into the big office until we get a new general counsel?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've changed my mind. I wonder if you could arrange for my stuff be moved in tonight. Not all my files, just my laptop computer, diary, and personal things. "

"I'll get right on it. Mr. Poindexter, have you checked your voice mails?"

"No, I haven't."

"Mr. Bigelow wants to meet with you in his office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Please go ahead and confirm it. I'll see you first thing tomorrow."

"What made you change your mind about the office?"

"Let's just say I've decided to go out with a bang."

He caught a taxi to the House of Fabulous, which occupied a gingerbread Victorian townhouse off Castro Street, and presented himself at the lavender door a few minutes before four o'clock. After looking around nervously to see if anyone was watching him, he pressed the buzzer, and an attractive woman opened the door almost immediately. Appearing to be in her late forties, she was conservatively dressed, wearing a knee-length black dress accentuated by a single strand of pearls. Her hair was swept back in an elaborate coif, her makeup was immaculate, and the nails on the hand she extended to Terrence were beautifully manicured.

She showed him into a small foyer which was overwhelmingly feminine in dcor. Everything seemed to be done in shades of lavender, from the chintz loveseat to the frilly lace curtains adorned with festoons and jabots. "Are you the person I spoke with on the phone?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes, I am Madam Fabulous," she replied in a pleasant voice. "You must be Terrence." She sat down on the loveseat and patted the cushion beside her. "Sit down next to me. What brings you to the House of Fabulous?"

Terrence weighed his words carefully. After all, Madam Fabulous might wind up as a witness if the company mounted an aggressive defense. "I am a lawyer for a large corporation. Recently the California legislature enacted a law protecting cross dressing in the workplace. I have always dreamed about being a girl, and now I can do it without losing my job." She nodded sympathetically as he pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his shirt. "I'll have to be careful to comply with the company dress code, so as not to give them grounds to retaliate against me. Here it is."

Terrence knew the Tyrex dress code for female employees by heart, having drafted it with Helen Wallace the year before, and he watched while Madam Fabulous scanned it. "'Skirts or dresses are required except on casual Fridays. Hosiery is mandatory,'" she read out loud. "Sounds like a party, Terrence. Are you sure they're going to be happy with the new you?"

"I'm sure they won't be. That's why I need your help in making myself over."

"Very well. Repeat after me: 'I dedicate myself to the discovery of my inner woman, and I pledge my allegiance to Madam Fabulous and her Mistresses in my quest to become a Fabulous Girl'". After Terrence repeated the pledge, she stood up abruptly and ordered him to take off all of his clothing. Her voice had a new edge to it.

"Right here?" he asked, startled by her sudden change in demeanor.

"Rule number one: do not question Madam Fabulous's instructions, at any time. Would you rather take off your pants out on Castro Street?" Without further protest, he stripped down to his briefs, and when she glowered at him, he removed them also. Terrence stood, naked and exposed, as she circled around him. "Good girl, you took care of your body hair. All right, let's get started." She handed him an evil looking garment that looked like an elaborate G-string. "Stuff your family jewels up into your abdomen, tuck yourself between your legs, and put this on. At once!" she shouted when he took too long to get started.

When his package was tucked away, she nodded her approval. "Good girl," she said once again, unnerving him with the words. "That contraption is called a gaff. You are only to remove it when absolutely necessary. Now that we have that taken care of, we can give you a name. Have you any preference, or shall I assign one to you?"

His mind went blank. "How about Terry?" he asked at length.

"A lovely name. Terry it shall be." One of Madam Fabulous's assistants, a pretty girl dressed in a French maid's costume, materialized. "This is Sissy, my Mistress of Fashion," Madam Fabulous said. "Sissy, meet Terry." Sissy gave Terry a shy smile, and it occurred to him that she was almost as embarrassed as he was. Then it dawned on him. Sissy was really a guy. Although she was very pretty, her square chin and large hands were dead giveaways.

Sissy handed Terry a pair of pink lace panties and instructed him to put them on. When he did, Terry felt an uncomfortable pressure against his gaff as he began to experience a strange arousal. Sissy didn't seem to notice as she handed him a new package of pantyhose. "Have you ever worn stockings?" she asked in a husky voice.

"No."

"There's nothing to it. Here, let me show you." She led Terry back to the loveseat and sat down beside him, coaching him on how to put them on without tearing the flimsy fabric. The sensation of sheer nylon against his smooth skin was unlike anything Terry had ever experienced, and his trapped manhood continued to struggle against its unfamiliar restraints.

Sissy produced several shoe boxes, but Madam Fabulous sent her away to look for more conservative styles. "Unlike most of our clients, Terry will be dressing for the business world," Madam Fabulous explained to Sissy. The Mistress of Fashion returned a few minutes later with several pairs of black pumps. The first pair was too tight, but the second fit Terry perfectly. "Stand up and try to walk in them," Madam Fabulous said.

Terry took a few wobbly steps under Madam Fabulous's watchful gaze. The three inch heels hurt his feet. "Keep your head up and your back straight!" Madam Fabulous commanded as he minced around the foyer. "All right, that's enough for now. We'll take care of deportment after she gets dressed. Let's get her into makeup next."

Madam Fabulous led Terry into an adjoining room, where the Mistress of Style was waiting for him. As she beckoned him to sit down in her chair, Terry scrutinized her, trying to discern whether she was another man. As if reading Terry's mind, she said "We are all girls here, my dear. You have such beautiful hair. I don't think we'll need to bother with a wig. Oh good, your fingernails are long enough to file and polish. This is going to be a cinch."

Madam Fabulous left them, and for the next hour, Terry surrendered to the ministrations of the Mistress of Style. His stubble was shaved, his eyebrows were plucked, his fingernails were manicured, his hair was trimmed and set, and his face was set upon by an assortment of sponges, pads and brushes. He closed his eyes as the sweet smelling cosmetics were applied to his lips, cheeks, and eyelids, trying to imagine what he was going to look like when she was finished with him. He caught himself sliding his legs together, reveling in the sensation of nylon against nylon, the stirring in his panties becoming a steady ache.

"All right, let's get a look at you," the Mistress of Style finally said. She produced a mirror, and Terry was amazed at what he saw. The girl looking back at him was beautiful. More than that, she was undeniably feminine. Whereas Sissy's manly features had given her away, there was nothing in Terry's appearance that would suggest that he was really a guy.

"Oh my," Madam Fabulous said when she walked into the room. "She won't even need a pair of boobs to pass."

"I can't take all the credit," the Mistress of Style replied. "She's a natural."

Madam Fabulous led Terry into another room, one filled with racks of clothing and boxes of foundation garments. "The Mistress of Fashion is helping another Fabulous Girl with a wardrobe crisis, so you're getting my personal attention," Madam Fabulous explained as she used a tape to measure Terry's vital statistics. He watched as she selected a pair of realistic-looking fake breasts and stuffed them into a lacy white bra. Terry stood self-consciously as she fastened it behind him.

Madam Fabulous stepped back to admire her handiwork. "Perfect," she said. "Now, we have a decision to make. Ordinarily, I fit our Fabulous Girls with padded butts and corsets, but you are not our everyday client. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you'll be wearing conservatively cut suits and dresses, and you'll need to be reasonably comfortable in your clothes for at least eight hours day, with an occasional trip to the rest room. Am I right?"

Terry nodded dumbly as she continued. "We could give you enough curves to stop traffic, and most Fabulous Girls want just that, but I don't think that would be very practical for you. And to be honest, you've got one of the nicest bodies I've ever had to work with. You look to be a perfect size 12, maybe a 14, so we'll have no trouble finding clothes that will make you look like a career woman without putting you through contortions. Agreed?"

"Yes, Madam," he said.

"Good girl. Let's get you dressed." With that, she handed Terry an A-line dress, black with silver sequins on it, and helped him drape it around his body. "This is the most conservative thing I have on hand," she sighed, "but we're running way ahead of schedule, so there should be no problem putting a nice trousseau together for you tonight. To tell you the truth, I'm looking forward to it. There," she said after she zipped him up, "take a look at yourself, Terry." She led her customer over to a full length mirror and waited for his reaction.

He must have been in a state of shock, because she finally had to prompt him. "Well, aren't you going to say something?" In fact, Terry was at a complete loss for words. He was dressed from head to toe as a woman, and for the first time in his life, he actually liked what he saw in the mirror. As a guy, Terry had always been scrawny and plain-looking, but as a girl, he was a knockout. The pounding in his panties intensified as he turned this way and that, fascinated by the woman that he had become.

His reverie was broken by a deep voice. "Are you ready for me, Madam Fabulous?"

Terry turned to face the Mistress of Poise. No question about this one. Even in women's clothes and makeup, at six feet three inches the Mistress of Poise was too masculine-looking to be an Amazon, yet he moved with remarkable grace. Terry soon became exhausted as his drill instructor in a dress took him through basic training in moving and behaving like a lady. By the time they were finished, his feet were killing him, and his feelings of arousal were long gone.

Madam Fabulous, who watched the whole thing, had a look of approval on her face. "My Mistress of Style was right. You are a natural," she beamed.

"You say that to all the girls," Terry said with a rueful smile.

"Well, we do try to reinforce a girl's self-image, but in your case that's hardly necessary. In three hours, you've made more progress than some Fabulous Girls make in an entire weekend, and most of them never end up looking as lovely. I'm very, very proud of you, Terry." He stood awkwardly as she gave him a little hug. "Now, here's a purse you can use until we get you one of your own. I've put your wallet in it. We're going to have to hurry, but if we leave right now, we can make it to Macy's and get in an hour or so of shopping. That should be plenty of time to find you a couple of outfits to get you started. Sissy will accompany us to pick out the rest of your essentials."

At the thought of going outside, Terry suddenly experienced a panic attack. Madam Fabulous had evidently seen this look in her clients' faces before, and she tried to calm him down. "There's a word which describes the ability to go out in public and pass for a woman. It's called 'passing.' We always take Fabulous Girls out in public to give them a chance to try out their femininity, because they have to learn how to deal with getting 'read' as a man. I'll be very surprised if you get read tonight, unless you give yourself away by calling attention to yourself."

With that, they left the studio and walked a few blocks to a taxi stand, Sissy having changed out of her maid's costume into a smart pants suit. The cool night air swirled around Terry's legs as he tried to get accustomed to walking in a dress, and Madam Fabulous had to remind him to stand up straight when he hunched self-consciously while they waited for a cab. One came along in a few minutes, and Terry tried to remember what he'd learned as he slid onto the seat and tugged his dress down over his knees.

They pulled up at Macy's on Union Square at half past seven. Madam Fabulous had given Terry's measurements to Sissy, who split off from them to purchase lingerie, stockings and accessories while Madam Fabulous and Terry made a beeline for Career Essentials. In no time, Madam Fabulous selected two suits, one blue and one gray, each with a short jacket and a slim knee-length skirt. She handed them to Terry and pointed him towards the dressing room. Terry panicked when a sales associate intercepted him, stammering when she asked him if he wanted her to set up a room for him. She seemed not to notice his embarrassment, and Terry heaved a sigh of relief when she closed the door behind him.

Get a grip girl, he told himself as he tried to get out of his dress. He struggled desperately, twisting and turning until he was able to grasp the zipper and yank it down. Finally he had the dress over his head, messing up his new hairdo in the process. He paused to take a few deep breaths, looking forlornly at his reflection in the dressing room mirror. Standing there in his bra, panties, stockings and high heels, he felt overwhelmed by the predicament he'd gotten himself into. What was I thinking, he asked himself as he fumbled in his purse for a hairbrush. Being a woman was like trying to talk in a foreign language while walking on stilts.

One thing was for sure. He was way too far into this to turn back now. With a sigh of resignation, he started brushing his hair, consoling himself with thoughts of the fat settlement check he was sure to get after he finished shaking down Tyrex Industries. He removed the blue skirt from its hanger and gingerly stepped into it. After he zipped it up, he removed the matching jacket from its hanger and pulled it on. When it was buttoned, he surveyed himself in the mirror. Once again, he felt a strange stirring below the waist as he admired the smartly dressed young woman staring back at him.

"How are we doing in there," he heard Madam Fabulous ask from the next dressing room. She had evidently entered the dressing area under the pretense of trying on an outfit for herself.

"Fine," Terry said, trying out the new voice drilled into him by the Mistress of Poise. "The blue suit fits."

"Then there's no need to try on the gray one. Here, try on this dress," Madam Fabulous said as she handed it over the transom. Terry looked up and reached for a white dress with blue polka dots. After he put the skirt and jacket back on the hanger, he stepped into the dress and pulled it over his shoulders. He heard a tap on his door, and he opened it to admit Madam Fabulous, who quickly straightened out the shoulder pads and zipped him up.

"Oh my, that looks precious on you!" Madam Fabulous said. Terry turned to look at himself in the mirror, and the glow in his panties heated up as his dress swirled around his knees.

"I love it," he heard himself say in his new voice.

"Why don't you wear it home?" Before he could respond, Madam Fabulous opened the door and handed the suits to the startled attendant. "My niece wants both suits and the dress, and she'd like to keep the dress on to pick out shoes and accessories."

"Of course," the girl replied. "Let me cut off the tags for you, and ring her up at the register. I'll put her old dress in a shopping bag."

While Terry was paying with the cash from his wallet, he heard Madam Fabulous call Sissy on her cell phone. "Meet us in the shoe department in five minutes. If you get there first, we need pumps with 2" heels in black, blue and white, size 9 wide. See you there."

It was almost closing time when they met up with Sissy. She had three pairs of high heels lined up for Terry to try on, and all fit him perfectly. As he was paying for the shoes, Madam Fabulous examined Sissy's other purchases, nodding in approval. "How much in total?" she asked. Terry overheard them, and he reimbursed her without being prompted. "Almost done," Madam Fabulous said as she sprinted for the escalator. Terry's feet were on fire but he managed to keep up with them.

He caught up with Madam Fabulous in the handbag department. He was about to tell her that he probably would only need one day's worth of clothing when he caught himself, and he grimaced as he handed over another fistful of bills to pay for three new purses. At least Madam Fabulous found them on sale.

"Only one more thing," Madam Fabulous said as they struggled with their shopping bags. She led Terry to the fashion jewelry department and found a salesgirl who was just closing up for the night. "Is it too late for my niece to get her ears pierced?"

The girl looked over the counter, expecting to find a ten year old, and she was startled when she came face to face with a bewildered Terry. "About ten seconds," she said, and before Terry could protest, he was cringing in a chair as the needle went into his ears.

"That was on me," Madam Fabulous said as they headed for the door.

By the time he got back to his apartment, laden down with shopping bags, Terry was utterly exhausted. Madam Fabulous had made him promise to hang up his new outfits so they wouldn't wrinkle, and she barked a few final instructions to him before their taxi dropped him off. "There's enough makeup in this bag to last you for at least a month," she said, handing him a cosmetics kit. "Sissy got you all the lingerie, jewelry and accessories you'll need for your first few days. Next time you go shopping, you'll be on your own, but if you have any questions, promise that you'll call me, any time. You have my number," she said, tucking a lavender business card into his purse.

He was almost too shell-shocked to speak when the cab pulled up to his apartment building. "Thank you for everything," he managed to say.

"It's been a marvelous evening. And remember, you are a Fabulous Girl now!"

* * *

Terrence Poindexter used to get up at five o'clock every morning to jog ten kilometers before breakfast. That was how he managed to maintain the slim physique so admired by Madam Fabulous.

But when Terry awoke at his usual time, it took him several seconds to realize that things were going to be different this morning. For starters, he was wearing a blue satin nightgown and panties, which he found in one of the shopping bags given to him by Sissy the night before. At first he wasn't going to bother with them, but for some reason he put them on before he went to bed.

So when he woke up, he found himself with a raging hard-on. Why is this turning me on, he asked himself as he looked down at his new body, so sleek and smooth in its silky lingerie. If I were a guy, I'd want to fuck this body, he said to himself. Wait a minute. I am a guy, aren't I?

One thing was for sure. There was no way Terry would be able to get his gaff back on if he remained in this condition. He tugged his panties down, and his erect penis sprang to attention. He grasped it in his manicured fingers, and after a few swift strokes, a rope of semen shot clear over his head, narrowly missing his new hairdo.

It was the most pleasurable orgasm of Terry's life. In fact, most of his sexual experiences had been self-administered, his successes with women sadly lacking over his twenty-eight years. As he lay there now, reveling in ecstasy, he was torn by feelings of lust and loathing. Although he loved the way he looked and felt, he was ashamed of himself for feeling that way.

Finally his gratification subsided, and Terry got out of bed. Think like a lawyer, he told himself, mentally organizing the tasks at hand. Remember your training, and think of the payoff. You know what you have to do. A glance at the clock told him it was time to get moving.

Terry brushed his teeth and gave himself a close shave while drawing a hot bath. After pinning up his hair, he lowered himself carefully into the tub and luxuriated for a few minutes in the hot suds, which he'd salted with bubble beads found in the cosmetics kit from the House of Fabulous. Then he picked up a new bic razor and carefully went over his arms and legs, removing the traces of stubble which had begun to grow back. With his manhood submerged below the bubbles, Terry could have been a girl as he shaved his legs.

After he finished scrubbing himself off with a loofa, he patted down his tender skin and applied a soothing coat of moisturizing crme to his arms and legs. Women know how to pamper themselves, he thought idly as he stood before his mirror and began applying his makeup. It almost makes up for the hassles they have to deal with, like trying to put on eyeliner. He took his time, remembering his lessons from the Mistress of Style, and after a few false starts and some trial and error, his face looked almost as good as it did the night before. He finished with a spritz of cologne behind each ear, finding his scent strangely intoxicating.

He felt his penis stirring, so once again he took decisive action, stroking himself while he gazed at his pretty face in the bathroom mirror. He reached up with his other hand and loosened his hair, which fell sexily down around his neck as he pulled and jerked on himself. Once again, he came in a rush, spewing jism onto the vanity as his knees buckled from the pleasure of his release, although it was tinged with feelings of shame.

With his penis limp at last, he tucked himself up into the gaff and headed back into the bedroom. "What to wear today?" he said out loud in his new voice, knowing that he needed all the practice he could get. "I'll think I'll wear my gray suit with black stockings." He opened up one of his drawers, and found the pile of lingerie which he'd stuffed there. Selecting a black bra and panties, he strapped on the bra, inserted his breast forms into the cups, and watched them jiggle as he shimmied into his panties. Then he opened a new pair of sheer black pantyhose and sat down on the edge of his bed to put them on. As he eased the delicate nylon up his legs, he thought he could feel the beginnings of another erection being stifled by his gaff. Terry was aware of a dull ache in his groin when he did a deep knee bend to pull his stockings up to his waist.

He lingered for a moment in front of his closet, relishing the caress of nylon against his freshly shaved legs. He wondered if it felt this good for real girls? After a moment's indecision, he took a thin black sweater off its hanger and tugged it over his head. Then he stepped into his gray skirt and zipped it up behind his back. It was fully lined, Madam Fabulous told him, so a slip would not be required. He lifted it up and smoothed his sweater before lowering it again, watching in fascination as his skirt settled a few inches above his knees. Then he remembered the fashion jewelry that Sissy had picked out for him, and he took a few moments selecting a simple gold necklace and a matching bracelet that looked good with the gold studs on his ears. After he buttoned up his jacket, he rummaged around the closet floor for his new black pumps. They were a bit tight, but his stockinged feet slid right into them, and he spent a few minutes practicing the deportment lessons that the Mistress of Poise had drilled into him.

Terry remembered his new women's wristwatch, and he was alarmed to see that it was after seven o'clock when he put it on. Let's see, what else is there? My purse! He took his black one into the bathroom to fill it up, and realized that he hadn't done anything with his hair. He found his brush and began working on his new shag hairdo, which the Mistress of Style assured him would be a snap to take care of. After a few minutes he had it as good as it was going to get, so he dropped the brush into his new purse, along with a compact and lipstick, and tried to think what else he should put in there. Soon it was bulging with keys, his new women's wallet, tissues, breath mints, a small mirror, cell phone, sunglasses, emery board, and miscellaneous junk. Anything else? He must have forgotten something!

Terry realized that he was prolonging the inevitable. His heart was racing when he slung his purse over his shoulder and headed for the door.

* * *

The receptionist at Tyrex Industries did not come on duty until eight o'clock. A key part of Terry's plan was to arrive before she got there and let himself in with his coded entry pass. Then he could wait behind closed doors in his new private office until his confrontation with Mr. Bigelow.

For that reason, and to spare himself the anxiety of trying to pass on the crowded Muni, he decided to take a taxi to work. He was dismayed to find a man waiting in line ahead of him at the taxi stand. He was about thirty, immaculately dressed in an expensive suit, crisp white shirt and subdued tie, and he smiled as Terry approached. "Morning. Beautiful day," the man said. He was very good-looking, and he had a gleam in his eye as he admired Terry's long legs.

"It sure is," Terry replied with a shy smile.

A cab pulled up to the curb. "Would you like to share it?" he asked.

Terry froze. He needed to get downtown, and there might not be another cab for a long time.

"My office is on Sansome Street," the man added.

Tyrex was on Montgomery Street, a block away. "Sure, that would be nice," Terry said. The man opened the back door of the cab, and it took Terry a moment to realize that he was waiting for him to get in. He climbed awkwardly into the back seat, his skirt riding all the way up to his ass, and tugged it down furiously as he slid across the seat.

His companion sat down next to him and held out his hand. "My name's John Stone."

"I'm Terry," he said, offering a limp wrist.

"What great weather for January," John said. "How long have you lived in the City?"

"Six years," Terry replied. No point in lying to every question.

"Almost as long as me. What do you do, Terry?"

"I'm a paralegal." Best to stay within striking distance of the truth.

"How about that? I'm a lawyer for Earp and Crosby." Terry knew the firm well, in fact they did some work for Tyrex. "Who do you work for?" John asked.

Terry thought fast. "Actually, I'm looking for a job. I have an interview this morning with Tyrex Industries."

"Hey, I know some of the people in the legal department there. Or at least I did. The guys I knew left or got canned, not sure which. So you know they have openings."

"Sounds like a rough place," Terry said, curious to know how the world viewed Tyrex.

"I don't want to discourage you, Terry, but you should look around a bit. Maybe talk to our firm. I'm sure we'd be interested in you."

"Really?"

"On second thought, that might not be such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"We have a firm policy against lawyers dating staff. That would be a real bummer."

Terry felt himself blushing. "I guess I'll have to decide between love or money."

"A girl like you can have it all." Terry was trying to figure out how to respond when the cab pulled up beside his building. He started to reach into his purse for his wallet when he felt John's hand on his knee. "It's on me, Terry. Here's my card. I'd love to see you sometime."

Terry put the card in his purse and opened the door. "Thanks, John. Maybe I'll call you, okay?"

"Any time," he said through the open window as the cab pulled away.

His confidence soaring, Terry smoothed down his skirt, slung his purse back over his shoulder, and walked through the revolving door to his office building. The crowd in the lobby brought him back down to earth. He waited nervously for an elevator, wondering if anybody would recognize him. But only a few people got onto the elevator with him, and he was alone by the time he arrived at Tyrex's floor. A quick glance at his watch told him that it was ten minutes to eight. He had his entry card in his hand, and after he let himself in he turned down the carpeted hall towards the general counsel's office. As he hoped, nobody saw him before he entered the large corner office and closed the door behind him.

Terry surveyed his new surroundings, pleasantly surprised. The office was as he remembered it from frequent visits, beautifully furnished with a large oak desk, a throne-like chair behind it, a matching credenza and bookcase, and a furniture grouping consisting of a sofa, two chairs and a coffee table. What surprised him were the diplomas on the wall and the knick knacks on the desk, taken from his old office and tastefully arrayed. His laptop computer was hooked into a docking station on the clean desk, and his personal diary lay open on the credenza.

I could get used to this, he said to himself as he sat down in the soft leather chair behind the desk. A glance down at his skirt and stockings brought him back to reality. Did a guy really hit on him a few minutes ago? If he could pass that kind of inspection, he could fool anybody.

He was looking at John Stone's business card when he heard a knock on the door. "Mr. Poindexter? May I come in?" It was Gail Chestnut.

Why not? She was going to find out anyway. "Yes," he said in his old voice. After she opened the door and came inside, he said, in his new voice, "Please close the door."

He watched with interest as Gail Chestnut displayed a kaleidoscope of reactions. Confusion, recognition, and shock all registered on her beautiful face as she stood rooted to the carpet. Finally Terry got up from his desk and walked over to the door, closing it while Gail continued to stare at him, open-mouthed. "Sit down, Gail, and I'll explain," he said, pointing to the sofa. Gail followed him and watched as he sat down in one of the facing chairs, carefully crossing his legs after smoothing his skirt beneath him. She collapsed onto the sofa, finally composing herself enough to speak.

"Mr. Poindexter, is that really you?"

"Yes, and please call me Terry," he replied.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

"It's a long story. Why don't you get us each a cup of coffee and I'll tell you all about it." Gail got up to leave, and when she got to the door, he said, "Gail, please close the door behind you, and promise that you won't tell anybody about me. Not until I have a chance to put out an announcement. Okay?"

"Sure," she said, still dazed. Gail returned a few minutes later with a tray of coffee, cups and utensils, and he waited until she sat back down and poured them each a cup before he spoke again.

"I appreciate everything you did yesterday to make my office so homey," he began.

"Don't mention it, uh, Terry. I'm sorry about the name plate on the door."

"I didn't even notice it."

"It says Mr. Poindexter."

Terry laughed, a girlish giggle that seemed to put Gail at ease. "I doubt if I'm going to be around long enough for them to make up a new one."

"Then why are you doing this? I mean, so you have a secret life. Why put your job at risk?"

"Some day I'll explain it to you, Gail. Right now, I just have to make it through my nine o'clock meeting with Mr. Bigelow. Do you have any idea what it's about?"

"The scuttlebutt isn't good. What did you say to him yesterday?"

"I just gave him some legal advice."

"Well, evidently it didn't agree with him. The rumor is that you're going to be let go today."

Terry wanted to take her into his confidence, but he didn't know if he could trust her. "I was afraid of that. Maybe I can talk him out of it."

"In that getup? You've got to be kidding. He'll fire you on the spot when he sees you like this. Are you sure you can't tell me why you came to work this way?"

"It's a long story."

"We have time. It's only eight o'clock," she said as she poured him another cup of coffee. "How long have you known you were gay?"

"I'm not gay," he said defensively.

"Sh'yea, right."

"I mean it! I don't like guys."

"So what are you, a transsexual? Are you going to have an operation?"

"No!" He realized that her questions were logical and natural, and she seemed startled by his reaction. "I don't want to have sex change surgery," Terry added before draining another cup of coffee. As he did so, he felt a twinge in his bladder.

"Then what do you want?"

"Millions of dollars from Tyrex Industries to go away quietly," he would have liked to tell her. Of course, he could never admit that to anyone. So instead, he said, "I just want to look, and live, like a woman. Consider it a complement, Gail. I've always thought girls got all the breaks."

"Dream on," she said. "You wanna trade places sometime, Mister, you can have my life. Get real."

He was genuinely puzzled by her response. After all, Gail Chestnut was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, and she seemed to have so much going for her. They found themselves becoming fascinated with each other as they sat there, chatting away like two girls. He found her incredibly attractive, and this time she was the reason for the uncomfortable stirring in his panties, spiced by his confinement to silk and lace. "Aren't you happy?" he asked.

"Give me a break. Half the guys in San Francisco are gay, and the rest think they're God's gift to women. I've been hit on so many times, I can't even look at a guy any more without putting my left up." Terry remembered how he himself had already been propositioned during his one excursion as a woman, but it hadn't bothered him particularly, and he was a guy. Something else was happening here.

"Don't you like guys?" Terry asked.

"Hey, how did this go from being about you to being about me? You're the one who has some explaining to do."

He topped off her coffee and poured himself another cup. When he sat back and crossed his legs again, she said, "How did you get so good at this?"

"Good at what?"

"Talking the talk, and walking the walk. I swear to God, if I didn't know who you were, there's no way I'd believe you were a guy."

How to explain it to her, let alone himself? What had the Mistress of Style called him? "A natural", she said. All Terry started out to do was put on a dress and get himself fired, but the more he was getting into it, the more he was getting into it.

Once again Terry tried to change the subject. "You didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"Do you like guys?"

For some reason, she felt like opening up to him, maybe because he seemed so unthreatening, sitting next to her in a skirt and high heels. "I don't know, Terry. I mean, I've loved guys in the past, but it's been a long time. Most of them I think are gross."

"Do you like girls?"

"No! I mean, not in that way. Dammit, here we go again, talking about my problems. You're the one who's about to get canned. How you gonna keep yourself in pantyhose then?"

He was about to answer when his telephone rang. He picked up the extension on the coffee table. "Hello," he said, remembering at the last second to use his old voice while Gail looked on in amusement.

"Hello Terrence, it's Helen. Mr. Bigelow asked me to sit in on his nine o'clock meeting with you."

Terrence Poindexter and Helen Wallace went back a long way, and he knew she would be honest with him. "Give it to me straight, Helen."

"Do you mind if I stop by?"

"I'm in the middle of something right now. Can't you tell me anything?"

"It doesn't look good, Terrence, that's all I can say. I'll do my best for you."

"I know you will, Helen. Chin up. It won't be a dull morning."

Gail was laughing as he hung up the phone. "I'll say this for you, Terry. Although you'd never know it, you've got balls. I mean, I always thought you were kind of a wimp, sitting back there in your little office, watching the alpha dogs fight it out. Aren't I pathetic?"

"Huh?"

"Now that you look like a woman, all of I sudden I find you attractive. What does that say about me?"

Terry was speechless. How could she possible see anything in him now? He was trying to think of a response when the calendar program on his computer beeped at him. It was the ten minute warning for his meeting with Mr. Bigelow! Where had the time gone? When he got up from his chair, he realized that three cups of coffee had been a big mistake. He had to go to the bathroom. Bad.

"Gail, I need to ask you one more favor."

"Anything."

"I have to go to the ladies room. Can you check and make sure the coast is clear?"

"Sure, but I don't think you need to worry. Nobody is going to recognize you."

"Really?"

"Terry, when I first walked into this office, I thought you were a complete stranger. Come one, let's go. Nobody is going to know who you are. If anyone asks, I'll tell them you're a new hire."

Terry picked his purse up off the desk and together they walked down the hall to the restroom. Without hesitation, he followed her in, relieved to find that there was nobody inside. He went into a stall and closed the door.

"Don't forget to sit down," Gail whispered.

"Be quiet!" he hissed. She was laughing as she left him alone. He lifted up his skirt, pulled down his panties and hose, and gently eased his gaff away from his aching privates. He was alarmed to find himself semi-erect, and he had to wait impatiently until his body was able to relieve itself. When he was finally done, he tucked himself back between his legs, pulled his panties and pantyhose back up, and tugged his skirt back down to his knees. He was about to leave the stall when he heard someone coming in the door.

Damn it! Should he wait here until she was gone, or take his chances? He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to nine! Before he could stop himself, he opened the door and walked over to the full length mirror. One of the secretaries was just going into another stall.

Terry noticed that his sweater had gotten tangled and his lipstick looked washed out. As if he had been doing it all his life, he lifted up his skirt and smoothed down his sweater before dropping his skirt back into place. After washing his hands, he took his lipstick out of his purse and applied just a touch to his lower lip before puckering up the way the Mistress of Poise taught him. He brushed away a few stray hairs, and he was on his way out before the secretary left her stall.

Gail was waiting for him outside his office. "You better run, it's time for your meeting," she said.

"Wish me luck," he said as he hurried down the hall.

* * *

Charles Bigelow had asked Helen Wallace to join him a few minutes before nine, and she sat quietly in one of the two chairs provided for supplicants before his massive desk. She had mixed feelings as Bigelow read through the resignation letter she prepared for Terrence Poindexter's signature. Terrence was one of her few remaining friends in the legal department, and they had worked well together. She was sorry to see him go, but business was business, and she hadn't become a corporate survivor by being soft.

Bigelow grunted when he finished reading the letter. "Three months severance. Do we have to give him that?"

"Yes sir, it's company policy and Terrence will be well aware of that."

"Do you think he'll sign this?"

"I think so. I wasn't able to talk to him this morning to feel him out, but I suspect he knows this is coming, and I don't think he'll put up much of a fight."

A grim smile came over Bigelow's face. "Since this is set up as a resignation, he isn't entitled to any severance at all, is he?"

Sometimes Helen hated her job. "Sir, technically that's correct, but we really are forcing him out, and he'll be much more likely to go quietly if we give it to him. If he balks, we can always take it off the table. He'll be much more likely to sign if he has some incentive to do so."

"All right, let's get this over with. Where is he, anyway?"

Bigelow's executive assistant stuck her head in the office. There was a strange look on her face. "Mr. Bigelow, uh, Mr. Poindexter is here."

"Well, send him in," he said impatiently. She stepped aside and watched Terry waltz into the office. Both Helen Wallace and Charles Bigelow were frozen in shock as Terry pulled back the empty chair and seated himself, curling one of his legs around the other. His skirt rode several inches up his thigh, and he let it ride while he waited for one of them to speak.

Helen's instinct for self-preservation saved her from blurting out her initial reaction. Overweight and unattractive, all she could say to herself was: "I'm a woman, and he's better-looking than I am. It's so unfair!"

Charles Bigelow had no such inhibitions. "What the hell is this?"

"A Halston. They're on sale at Macy's, although I doubt if they come in your size."

Bigelow's face bulged over the collar of his white shirt. "I knew you were a homo from day one!"

"A common misconception. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"I want you out of here!"

"Then why did you ask me to come to your office?"

"You're f...."

Helen found her voice before it was too late. "We think the time has come for us to separate," she cut in, trying to get the meeting back on script despite the incredibly bizarre circumstances. She slid the resignation letter across the desk to Terry, who studied it while Bigelow looked on in fury, his face turning bright crimson.

"This is a resignation letter," Terry said at length. He looked up at Mr. Bigelow. "Why would I want to resign? I like it here."

Bigelow finally erupted. "You're fired, fagolito!"

"On what grounds?"

"Give me a fucking break! You show up in my office in a fucking dress and you ask me why you're fired? Get out!" he shouted. Helen looked on helplessly, sensing impending disaster.

"Thank you for clearing that up, Mr. Bigelow. I'm sorry you don't like my outfit, but it conforms to the Tyrex dress code, and under AB 196, I have a legal right to wear it. Why, we discussed that just yesterday."

Helen tried desperately to control the damage while Bigelow went from red to purple. "Terrence, those really wouldn't be the grounds for your separation from the company...."

Terry cut her off. "Come off it, Helen. You heard what I just heard. And if you're called as a witness, you'll have to tell the truth. Any jury in San Francisco would find Tyrex Industries in willful violation of my civil rights."

Charles Bigelow looked like he was about to have a seizure. At that moment, there was a rap on the door and Doyle Rogers, the Executive Vice President and Chief Financial Officer, stuck his head in the office. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Bigelow, but it's urgent." He glanced at Terry and did a double-take before continuing. "We just received a letter from Great White, LLC. They've launched a tender offer." He stared at Terry as he reached across the desk and handed a letter to Bigelow.

Bigelow read the letter with shaking hands. "My God, it's a hostile takeover!" he gasped. Suddenly his face became contorted, and he clutched at his chest. The morning's twin shocks were too much for Charles Bigelow. Thirty years of red meat, cigars and martinis had finally taken their toll.

Helen looked on in horror as Bigelow's face went from purple to gray, like some kind of grotesque chameleon. "Call 911" she cried. "He's in cardiac arrest!"

* * *

Terry walked back to his office in a trance. While they were waiting for the ambulance to take Bigelow away, Doyle Rogers had taken him aside. "What's going on?" he'd asked.

"I just got fired."

"No you didn't. It looks like I'm in charge now, and I'm going to need you to help fight this takeover." He looked on disbelief as Doyle tore up his resignation letter.

Terry tried to protest, but what could he say? That the whole thing was a scam? Word of his transformation spread throughout the office like wildfire, and he felt like a carnival attraction as he passed the desks of gaping secretaries on the way down the hall.

Gail was waiting for him, and she closed the door behind them after he sank into his leather chair. "What happened?" she asked.

Terry shook his head. "I'm screwed."

"Terry, I'm so sorry. I'll help you pack up your things."

"That's not what I mean, Gail."

"Huh?"

Terry unloaded on her. "The whole thing was a con, Gail. I knew Bigelow was out to get me, so I came up with the idea of dressing like a woman so I could nail the company for discrimination. I didn't figure on Bigelow having a heart attack."

"A heart attack?"

"He's on his way to the hospital. Now I'm stuck like this."

She moved over to his chair and looked down at him. "Let me get this straight. You're really not a cross dresser?"

"I never even tried it before yesterday."

She sat down on his lap. "My God, you have balls. Putting on a skirt to stick it to the man. What a turn on." Before he could say anything, she leaned over and kissed him, gently at first, then with animal passion. Terry responded immediately, and he nearly bent over double over as his penis strained against the gaff.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm all tucked in down there," he said, grimacing in agony.

"This I've got to see," she said, sliding off his lap. While he looked on in disbelief, she reached up his skirt and pulled down his hose and panties. Then she found the strings on his gaff, and he moaned as she released him. When her head went up his skirt, he rolled back in his chair in ecstasy as she took him into her mouth. He came almost instantly, losing himself to waves of exquisite pleasure. When it was over, he sat back, utterly spent, while she ran her fingernails over his stockings.

At first he didn't hear the tapping on his door. When he did, he sat up with a start just before Doyle Rogers stuck his head in the office. "Terrence, do you mind if I come in?"

Terry pulled up his chair and tried to act nonchalant while Gail huddled beneath his desk. Fortunately, he remembered the Mistress of Poise admonishing him that 'a lady remains seated when a man enters the room.' "Hello, Doyle," he said in a strangled voice.

Doyle Rogers eyed him with curiosity. A fastidious man in his late thirties, he maintained a respectful distance while he weighed his words. "I must say, Terrence, I was surprised to see you this way. But I want you to know that I respect you for having the courage of your convictions."

"Why thank you, Doyle. And please call me Terry."

A toothy smile filled Doyle's handsome face. "We're going to be working very closely together on this takeover battle, Terry. I think it would be a good idea if we got to know each other better. That's why I was hoping you could join me for dinner tonight."

Terry started to hem and haw until he felt Gail pinch him on his thigh. "That would be lovely," he said with a shy smile.

"Wonderful. I'll meet you at the Carnelian Room at eight o'clock." Doyle turned and left before Terry could say anything else.

Gail got up from under his desk and helped him pull himself together. "Thanks," was all he could say.

"Don't mention it. That was a blast."

"It was amazing. You're amazing."

"Just looking out for my department head," she said as she straightened out his skirt. "It looks like the girls are right about Mr. Rogers."

"What do you mean?"

"His secretary thinks he's a closet queen. Maybe he wants to follow in your footsteps."

"That's all I need."

"I couldn't believe it when you almost blew him off for dinner. Stick with me, Ms. Poindexter, and you'll learn the secrets to executive success. I already gave you lesson number one."

"What's that?"

"How to suck up to the boss." She kissed him on the lips and headed back to her desk.

After she was gone, Terry sat back in his plush chair and crossed his silky legs. I could get used to this, he said to himself. Having a great office, getting close to Gail, even wearing women's clothing every day....

He rummaged through his purse for a lavender business card. After a moment's hesitation, he dialed the number. A familiar voice answered the phone on the second ring. "House of Fabulous."

"Hello, Madam. It's Terry."

"Terry, how nice to hear from you. How was your first day?"

"Fine, but I need your help."

"What is it, dear?"

"I'm going out to dinner tonight, and I haven't a thing to wear."

---

By the author of Skylord, coming soon from PublishAmerica
TG crossdress rated-M

 

The continuing missadventures of Cissy, a hapless hedge fund scoundrel unmanned by one of his/her own toxic products…can a bad boy make it as a bad girl? The outrageous sequel to “Grow a Pair!”

 

One month after my return to San Francisco, the tinny radio alarm clock on my fiberboard nightstand awakened me from a fitful sleep. Five o’clock in the morning! I threw back the covers and staggered into the bathroom, full of foreboding over the day ahead.

The bleary-eyed woman looking sullenly back at me in the mirror still seemed like a stranger, an alien intruder who was slowly but surely taking over my body. Her blossoming breasts pressed proudly against her long cotton nightshirt, and her tousled hair crept down towards her shoulders…my shoulders! With a sigh of resignation, I surveyed the array of creams, lotions, powders and brushes strewn over my cheap formica vanity and tried to figure out where to begin.

A few scant months ago, I’d been the master of my destiny, a high-flying hedge fund manager with millions of dollars and all the women I wanted. Since my financial empire collapsed, I’d been living off a seven figure stash which I’d secreted into an offshore bank account. After a few days in a suite at the Fairmount Hotel, it became apparent that I’d have to cut back drastically if my stash was going to last me the rest of my life. My old neighborhood in Russian Hill was out of the question, and after a disheartening week of apartment hunting I’d settled on a furnished studio in Walnut Creek, a white bread bedroom community across the Bay.

I soon settled into a life of androgynous obscurity, living in jeans and sweatshirts while I plotted my comeback. With thousands of ruined shareholders, the IRS and the Berkeley police still looking for me, my prospects of working again were nil. My only hope was to eke out a meager existence until I could find some antidote to the terrible calamity which had robbed me of my manhood and was slowly, inexorably turning me into a woman. It was the quest for that antidote which had gotten me up at this ungodly hour…

The twinge in my bladder brought me back to the matters at hand. I had to sit down to relieve myself these days: my little nubbin of a penis was almost too tiny to grasp, so I plopped down on the toilet seat and hung my head in misery, contemplating the stubble on my legs. They were my first project this morning! I poured way too much bubble bath into my scarred old tub and submerged myself in the mountains of steaming hot suds, wishing that I could stay there all day.

The immediate source of my misery was a byproduct of my scheme to go behind enemy lines: a notorious tort lawyer was assembling a legal dream team to pursue me to the ends of the earth, and hiring administrative staff to run the juggernaut. If I could land a job as a secretary there, maybe I could learn something, anything which would enable me to stay one step ahead of them.

After landing an interview, it dawned on me that if I was going to escape detection, I’d have to raise my game as a female. As I tediously shaved my legs, I contemplated everything I’d done to myself over the past few days, in preparation for my debut as Cissy the secretary: an appointment at a hair salon, where my shaggy ponytail was styled into a collar-length bob with perky bangs…a session with a MAC stylist, who gave me a complete makeover and sold me a small fortune in makeup, sponges and brushes…a mercifully quick trip to a Korean manicurist, who filed and polished my hot pink talons…and endless hours shopping for career girl outfits, including skirts, tops, dresses, accessories, and the items I dreaded wearing the most: pantyhose and high heels!

Ouch! I nicked myself with my Daisy razor…I hate this! Why did I have to wear nylons anyway? Most women didn’t! Why couldn’t I just wear pants? I was relying on my Google research into what a girl should wear to a job interview in a professional office: knee length skirt or dress, conservative pumps, and nude or off-black stockings. I spotted some stray hair on my knee, and whisked it off while I thought back to the most humiliating moment of my life: trying on women’s shoes with the assistance of a randy sales clerk. He’d forced me to put on little mini-nylons that just covered my feet before he brought me box after box of high heels, waiting patiently while I paraded back and forth until I found a pair that didn’t cause complete agony when I walked more than a few paces.

At least I’d been wearing jeans so he couldn’t see my bits and pieces! Today, I’d be on full display if I forgot myself and sat like a guy…when I’d stalled until the bathwater turned chilly, I finally got out of the tub, dried myself off and glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Shit! Almost six o’clock! I’d have to hustle my bustle to get myself dressed in time to make my train.

I switched on the TV to listen to the news while I pulled myself together. Moisturizer was a must, I reminded myself, then it was back to the vanity for my makeup, a towel tugged up over my breasts. Let’s see, what did the MAC girl teach me? Foundation sponged on first, then eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara…precision work, so far so good! Next, pressed powder and blusher, brushed and blended just so…looking good, what’s missing? Lipstick! Carefully I drew a cupid’s bow on my pouting lips, smacked them on a tissue, and stepped back to admire my handiwork. Not bad! My new hairstyle was easy to care for, and I played with my brush until I had it looking the way I wanted. Anything else? Cologne! I spritzed myself behind each ear and once on my cleavage for the hell of it, before returning to the bedroom for the moment I’d been dreading.

The TV weathergirl interrupted my thoughts: “No dresses or skirts today, girls, it’s going to be windy in San Francisco.” Great! Now you tell me, I thought morosely as I surveyed the meager collection of outfits in my closet. I wished I knew what I was doing! All my knowledge about dressing as a woman was based on countless hours of Internet research, mostly websites frequented by crossdressers, who seemed to be more into women’s clothes than the real girls.

Finally I selected my black pencil skirt, reasoning that it would be least affected by the wind, and the cream colored blouse and half-sleeved sweater that went with it. Hmmm…my pearls and matching earrings ought to work with my twin-set, so I dug them out of my dresser along with a white bra and panties, a camisole to smooth me under my top, and an unopened package of sheer nude pantyhose…I’d never worn nylons before, what if I’d guessed wrong on the size? At least my skirt was lined, so I wouldn’t need a slip, although most of the crossdressers on the web seemed to wear them for kicks. Go figure!

My head was spinning with conflicting thoughts as I tugged on my panties and reached behind my back to fasten my bra. So far, so good: I’d been wearing a bra since my breasts took off, and panties were no big deal anymore. I hated to even look at what remained of my once proud penis, so I tugged them on quickly. Up to that moment, there was no difference from what I’d been wearing under my jeans and sweatshirts, but the rest would be uncharted territory. Sure, I’d tried on my new clothes before I bought them, only to make sure they fit, but I’d never dressed myself completely as a woman before. The mistresses at the House of Fabulous had turned me into a girl that first day, but since then I’d been living as an androgynous tomboy. All that was about to change forever.

Another glance at the clock radio: it was almost six thirty! When I was a guy, I could roll out of bed, shower, shave and be out the door in twenty minutes. Not any more! I grabbed my camisole and realized that the price tags were still on it, as well as on my skirt, top and sweater too, and I lost valuable time searching for a pair of scissors to cut them off. Calm down, Cissy…you can do this! My stomach was churning as I lifted the camisole over my head and dropped it down to my shoulders. My skin actually shivered from the feel of the cool silky fabric, and when I pulled on my top, I found myself staring at my bra and camisole straps in the mirror. I looked, and felt, so vulnerable!

My hair was mussed from pulling on my top, and I lost a few minutes brushing it back into place before I resigned myself to the inevitable and tore open the package of pantyhose. I don’t know why I felt such resistance to them, I suppose they represented the ultimate submission to my new status in life…with a sigh of surrender, I sat down on the edge of the bed and started easing them up my legs. I was surprised by how sensual it felt to slide them on, and it was almost like an out-of-body experience, watching my legs shimmer under the silky, sheer nylon. When I tugged them up to my waist, I felt a little tingle in my panties, the first time I’d felt anything down there in a long, long time….

After that, stepping into my skirt was almost an anti-climax. I’d never worn a skirt before, and it took me a while to figure out how to zip it up, clasp it, and twist it around so the kick pleat was centered between my legs. I had to lift it up to tug down my camisole and top, and once again I felt totally vulnerable at the sight of myself in the mirror, scantily clad in silk and lace….I tugged down my skirt and padded over to the closet it my stocking feet to search for my shoes. I had to hold my knees together as I stooped down in my tight skirt to pick them up, but I was pleasantly surprised by how easily they slipped onto my feet. Nylons were good for something!

What else? My pearl necklace had a little clasp in the back, and it took me forever to figure out how to get it fastened. I’ll never make that train! I’d put off getting my ears pierced, although I wished now I hadn’t as I fumbled with my clip-ons…might was well, I said to myself ruefully as I surveyed the finished product in the mirror, resistance is futile! The girl looking back at me was gorgeous, and when I turned sideways, I was actually proud of my curves: jutting breasts, tight little waist, cute ass, and sexy legs which looked so long and lean thanks to my heels. I was almost in a trance as I pulled on my sweater, fumbled with the contents of my purse, remembered to put on my new woman’s watch and raced out the door.

Okay, racing is an exaggeration…how could I, hobbled by my pencil skirt and high heels? My apartment complex was a short walk from the BART station, but my feet were throbbing by the time I’d gotten halfway there. I’ll never get used to this! I moaned as I gritted my teeth and toughed it out…I noticed another woman — did I just say another woman? — passing me by, wearing sneakers over her stockings, with a large shoulder bag undoubtedly containing her stilettos. Why didn’t I think of that?

I could hear the train approaching as I entered the station. Fortunately, I’d already gotten my BART pass, and I was able to make it through the turnstile and up the escalator just in time to squeeze into a crowded car. Every seat was taken! Wait, there was one, an elderly woman was on her way to it…I aced her out and plopped myself down, ignoring the rude stares from the standees in the aisle. The train lurched off, and when I looked down I was mortified to see that my skirt had ridden halfway up to my ass! I tugged it down awkwardly and glanced to my right, getting a sympathetic smile from the woman sitting next to me…a little bond of sisterhood with a fellow female, making our way in a man’s world.

I closed my eyes and nodded off, already exhausted from the simple tasks of shaving my legs, putting on my makeup and getting myself dressed. No wonder women hadn’t risen as far and fast as men in the business world, they — we — had so much more to cope with. I wondered if I’d ever get used to the thousands of little challenges that came with being a woman? No wonder you never saw them wearing skirts and dresses, let alone stockings, unless they had to.

When I finally opened my eyes, we were just approaching the big transfer station at MacArthur. I caught a good-looking guy staring at me, or at least I thought he was…wishful thinking? Who was I trying to kid! The last thing I needed was to get hit on by a guy. For starters, I wasn’t gay, and I’d never been attracted to a man in my life. On the other hand, although I was still attracted to women, there wasn’t much I could do about it, and if I stayed the way I was, I was doomed to a sexless life, full of frustration.

And what if I did try to make it with a guy? Once he found out I didn’t have female plumbing, he’d kick my ass! Anyway, I must have still been wired as a guy, because I couldn’t take my mind off sex. Well, I’d better take my mind off it, since I had an interview for a secretarial position at 9:00. I took my phony resume out of my purse and tried to remember what I’d made up about myself.

It was a masterpiece of creative fiction, starting with my name, date of birth and of course, gender…for education I’d dumbed myself down into a community college dropout, and for work experience I highlighted my fascinating career as a sales associate, fast food server and finally my big break: secretary for a chain of tanning salons. My place of residence was bogus, as were my mythical references, and unless this law firm was totally clueless, there was zero chance that I’d get past the first interview. My objective was to learn as much as I could and figure out some way to get around their security and into their files before they caught on to me.

The stakes were high, and it wasn’t just their records on my hedge fund that I was after. Internet rumor had it that the law firm had uncovered volumes of scientific research into the feminization of males by Atrazine, the pesticide which had done me in. If I could get my hands on those records, maybe one of their discoveries could lead to a miracle cure?

I looked up to see that we were pulling into the Embarcadero station, the long run under the Bay behind us. My seatmate got up to leave, and I swiveled my legs into the aisle to let her by, hardly believing that the silken knees peeking out under my skirt were really mine. I’d kicked off my heels, and I searched desperately for them under my seat, drawing smirks from a couple of guys across the aisle. Ignoring them as best I could, I struggled into my shoes and staggered to my feet just in time to get off at Montgomery.

It was cold and raw on Market Street, with a brisk wind that blew my hair into my eyes. My legs were surprisingly warm in my nylons, but my bare forearms were cold! Lowering my head, I trudged ahead, forced by my skirt and the unfamiliar heels to take tentative, painful steps. When I got to Boudin I ducked inside, grateful to be indoors. I’d gone there countless times as a guy for coffee and croissants on my way to work, and something seemed a little different as I took my place in line…of course! I was three inches taller! Amazing how the world looked when you were six feet tall, even if that meant you were in high heels.

I ordered my usual Americano and chocolate croissant, and took them to a table by the window, watching the world go by as I contemplated my fate. Once again I kicked off my heels, and found a bit of heaven flexing my aching toes in my nylons. Funny, the croissant tasted a little different than I remembered…oh, that’s my lipstick! At least the coffee tasted the same, and I lingered over it as long as I could, steeling my nerves for the ordeal ahead. I must be crazy, walking into the lion’s den dressed like this…what if somebody recognized me? I pulled a compact mirror out of my purse and recoiled at the sight of my windblown hair…it looked like a fright wig!

I washed down the rest of my croissant, grimaced as I squeezed my poor feet back into my heels, and found the ladies room. I didn’t dare risk taking the time to figure out how to pee, I might never get myself put back together again! I tediously brushed my hair into place, although I knew it would be a mess the moment I stepped outside again. After freshening my lipstick, I removed a cigarette from my purse and headed back towards Market Street, pausing just long enough to light up before I stepped back into the wind. I huddled in the doorway like the other tobacco addicts up and down the street, indulging myself with this last bit of pleasure before I crushed my cigarette under the toe of my shoe and minced my way towards my destination on Sansome Street.

The address was an imposing granite office building in the heart of the financial distract. I’d been there many times in my former life, although now I had to wait in line and sign in with a girlish hand at the security guardpost. Then it was another line for a crowded elevator, and at first I didn’t realize that the men were all waiting for me to get on first…one of the perks of being a woman! The downside was feeling their eyes undress my body in unison, and I stared at the lights above the doors, blinking off the floors, to take my mind off the sensation of being peeled like a banana.

The law firm of Wurm, Roach and Scheister occupied the two top floors. Originally a white shoe firm with a strangle-hold on San Francisco’s banking business, it had metastasized into a monster by gobbling up boutique firms specializing in high tech, patent law, and its ever-expanding litigation factory. The haunted eyes and sallow complexions of the drones standing next to me were silent testimony to the sweatshop atmosphere.

I emerged from the elevator into a scene of utter chaos. Instead of the elegant, orderly reception area that I remembered, the lobby was a madhouse of UPS agents hauling in boxes of files, law clerks and paralegals scurrying to and fro, and phones ringing off the hook despite the desperate efforts of a harried receptionist to stay on top of them. When I finally got her attention and mouthed the words “secretary interview” she waved me over to a crowd of women milling around in one of the corners. We stood there, eyeing each other critically, each dressed in our conservative little outfits, heels and stockings, wondering how many positions were open and what it would take to get one of them.

Eventually a foppish little man with a flamboyant bowtie and a bad comb-over approached and asked us to follow him down a flight of stairs connecting the reception area to the boiler room below. More boxes piled up everywhere and frantic associates bumping into each other in their manic pursuit of the billable minute. We were led into a large, windowless conference room, not the type reserved for important clients, rather the kind of place where pizzas were served at midnight to stoke the lawsuit machine. I grabbed a chair, grateful to get off my tender feet, and carefully smoothed my skirt beneath me as I primly sat down and crossed my legs.

Mr. Bowtie tapped the table with a pencil, silencing the babble of female voices. “Ladies, if I may have your attention,” he lisped, “thank you for responding to our advertisement. As you can see, there are a lot of you, and lovely and talented as you all undoubtedly are, at the moment we have only three open positions. Of course, all of your resumes will be kept on file….” He pressed on despite the audible groans and sighs. “In addition to the secretarial positions, we do have one immediate opening for a receptionist. Unfortunately, this position pays only minimum wage, but it is a way to get your foot in the door, so to speak.” Looking around, I could see that there were no takers: the women in this room were experienced executive assistants, and they’d be better off staying on unemployment than taking a dead-end job like that. I shot up my hand and chirped, “I’ll take it.”

* * *

And so began my career as a receptionist at Wurm, Roach and Scheister. The next morning, I was up at five again for what was to become my weekday routine: shaving my legs in the tub, putting on my makeup, trying to decide what dress or skirt to wear (the dress code for receptionists was even more demanding than for secretaries, since we were “the face of Wurm Roach” as Mr. Bowtie put it), fixing myself a quick breakfast, trudging off to the BART station, dozing off if I could find a seat on the train, and then a quick cigarette on my way to the office.

On the way home after my successful “interview” I’d stopped at a discount shoe store and treated myself to a pair of women’s sneakers, so at least my feet weren’t already in agony when I showed up for work. I learned how to juggle a shoulder bag along with my purse to carry my heels, and I learned to throw in an extra pair of nylons in case I snagged them on the train on against a filing cabinet or my chair. During my lunch hour one day I scored a pair of stilettos that were almost comfortable, two more skirts and tops to go with them, a matching purse of course, and some necessary lingerie….how did working women afford this crap?

There was a definite hierarchy at the office, and as the lowly receptionist I was definitely the low woman on the totem pole. I amused myself by perfecting my female voice while biding my time. The place was such a zoo, there was a never-ending stream of entertainment, and I filled the occasional lulls by paging through the women’s fashion magazines I found in the break room, educating myself about clothes and makeup. Whenever I could, I offered to help the other girls with their filing and correspondence, always on the lookout for information about the case against me. Although I wasn’t able to turn up any evidence, I did come across the computer passwords for each of the members of the legal team, which I carefully copied before returning the original.

Unlike the manic hours I was used to working, I clocked out every day at five on the dot, returning to lonely nights alone in my dreary apartment. Until one day when Mr. Bowtie surprised me during my lunch break with an ice cream cake, leading my fellow munchkins in a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday.” At first I didn’t get it, until I realized that it must be the date of birth I’d randomly chosen for my phony ID!

“What are your plans for your big day?” one of the secretaries asked.

“Yeah, Cissy, got a hot date tonight?” another one chimed in.

I shook my head sadly. “I’ll be watching American Idol.”

“Aw, c’mon, it’s your birthday, girl! We gotta do better than that. Why don’t you join us tonight?”

“Yeah, Cissy, we’ve got room for one more, you’ll love it!”

Maybe it was because I was bored out of my mind with the prospect of another night in front of the TV, but eventually I broke down and agreed to join “the girls” for a hot night out on the town. Promptly at five o’clock, the posse formed up in the lobby, and I fell into line as we trooped onto the elevator, wondering if some of the estrogen would rub off on me? I’d left my sneakers under my desk, and my feet were killing me by the time we got to our first stop, the Clock Bar at the St Francis Hotel.

Some of the girls were really hot, and I settled into my seat at our corner booth, content to watch the evening unfold. A couple of middle-aged businessmen from out of town tried to flirt with us, but my cohorts made short work of them, and we giggled over our Cosmos and Chardonnays as the night wore on. When it was almost seven, Shannon, the ring-leader, announced that it was time for us to head for Asia SF.

“What’s Asia SF?” I asked the girl next to me.

“You’ve never heard of it? You’ll see,” she laughed as she drained her drink. We gathered up our coats and purses and struck off, turning heads along the way as we marched en masse towards the cab stand on Union Square. My feet were in agony and I was having trouble keeping up with them. “Suck it up, girl!” Shannon taunted me.

Squeezing into the back seat of a taxi with three other women in short skirts was beyond bizarre, but after two Cosmos I was feeling pretty loose so I just went with the flow and tried to imagine that I was really one of the girls. A few minutes later, we spilled out of the cab onto 9th Street and I followed the crowd into a nondescript nightclub with a horseshoe shaped bar surrounded by banquettes already jammed with tourists, bachelorette parties and the occasional couple. My eyes were still getting adjusted to the dim light when our waitress, an incredibly hot Asian chick in cutoffs and a belly shirt, arrived to take our orders.

I concentrated on my menu as she made her way around the table. When she came to me, I looked up and did a double take. It couldn’t be! “Are you ready?” she asked impatiently.

“Uh, no, I mean yes, I’ll have the chicken satay and crab wontons,” I stammered. My eyes were glued to her as she moved to the girl beside me, but she didn’t seem to recognize me before she left to put in our orders.

“What is this place?” I asked Shannon.

“You haven’t figured it out? Dear, sweet, innocent Cissy, this is a drag bar!”

I was way ahead of her, but I played along anyway. “You mean our waitress is really a guy?”

“Either she is, or she was,” Shannon said matter-of-factly. “They double as waitresses and the main attraction. Wait till you see them strut their stuff!” Sure enough, shortly after our waitress returned with our orders, the lights dimmed and an emcee announced that the show was about to being. To the booming beat of canned music, the first of the waitresses leaped onto the bar and began gyrating while the audience whooped and hollered.

One after another, they took their turns on the bar, dressed in incredibly hot outfits. I waited on the edge of my seat for our server to take her turn, and when she did, she was spectacular in her hotpants, fishnets and thigh-high boots. Shaking her booty for all she was worth, she brought down the house as she pranced along the bar, teasing the straight guys who were cool enough to let her muss their hair and yank their ties. She ended her routine with a spectacular cheerleader’s split, drawing a standing ovation from the packed house.

“Wow,” Shannon said. “Can you believe she used to be a guy?”

“No way,” I lied. “What’s her story?”

“All I know is all of them used to be boys. Why, do you want to meet her?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do.”

“Well, she’ll be back to collect our check. Why don’t you stuff a twenty in her bra?” Shannon teased me.

“All I want is her name and phone number.”

* * *

The next morning, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the girls about my “crush” on Jade, our waitress. They’d watched me ask her if I could call her, and although she’d brushed me off, I had all the information I needed.

Later that same day, I got another lucky break. The big dog litigator from New York, Leonard “Tiny” Wurm, arrived for an all-hands strategy session about the case against my hedge fund, and it wasn’t long before he hit on me. He was a mountain of a man, ruggedly handsome for an older guy, with ruddy cheeks and a full head of silver hair. I myself was looking good despite my late night out on the town, and I flirted with him until he asked me out to dinner. At his hotel! I asked him for his room number, which he gave me before suggesting that we meet first at the hotel restaurant.

Our “date” was for six o’clock. Precisely at five, I ducked out of the office and headed straight for Leonard’s hotel, where I got myself the cheapest available room on the same floor as his, for one night only. I didn’t even have time to check out my room before dinner, and of course I had on my stilettos, so my sneakers were still stuffed in my shoulder bag. Using the techniques I’d learned from reading all those women’s magazines, I amped up my makeup in the ladies room before I rode the escalator up to the second floor for my first ever date with a man.

Leonard was waiting for me at a corner table laden with linens, crystal, silver and a romantic candle. His Manhattan was almost drained, and he ordered another for himself and a Cosmo for me before we turned our attention to the menus. It was beyond strange, sitting there in a dress while a man ordered dinner for me, knowing that his only objective was to get inside my pants as soon as we got up from the table. We made small talk over dinner, and although I tried to draw him out about the case against me, he gave me next to nothing and I didn’t press my luck.

After dessert and coffee, he assumed without asking that I’d be thrilled to join him in his suite, and I offered no resistance. He put his arm around me on the way up in the elevator, and I took his hand as he led me down the hall to his suite. As soon as we were inside, I did a quick surveillance to determine the location of his laptop computer. When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, I stuffed his computer into my shoulder bag before I stretched myself out on the sofa.

Then the hard part began: he sat down next to me, and I let him kiss me and stroke my breasts and legs, playing along while he unzipped my dress and unfastened his own belt and trousers. In my slip and stockings, I felt so vulnerable! I cuddled next to him on the sofa, and when he started groping at the waistband of my pantyhose I seized the initiative and tugged his shorts down to his ankles.

His manhood was soft but willing, and under normal circumstances his lady would have done the necessary to bring him to full arousal. “Do you know what I want?” he moaned between kisses.

“What?” I whispered, nibbling on his ear.

“I want to cum all over your tits and watch you suck it up.”

Charming! I had to figure out some way to get out of there before he got into my panties…then an inspiration came to me.

“Now I know how you got your name,” I giggled.

“What do you mean, baby?”

“Tiny Wurm. It looks like a penis, only smaller.”

“You little bitch!”

“I’ve taken shits bigger than your cock!”

He stood up in a rage. “Get out!” I scrambled off the couch, gathered up my dress, shoes, shoulder bag and purse, and raced out the door as he slammed it behind me. The next few seconds were critical: half naked, I had to run down the hall to my room and get the door closed behind me before he discovered that his laptop was missing. From the sound of it, I just made it, because I heard him swearing and searching for me a few seconds later. Then hotel security came, and the police, their heavy footsteps and two-way radios echoing outside my door.

That night, I hunkered down in my room, pouring over the case files in Leonard’s computer. It was like finding the mother lode: hundreds of documents detailing the toxic effects of Atrazine, including scientific research papers isolating a compound called pheminyze, which triggered the genetic sex change from male to female. I searched all night for anything which might suggest the possibility of a cure, but by dawn it was obvious that my fate was sealed. There was no way to reverse the process.

Other files and records confirmed that the lawyers’ search for me had hit a brick wall, so as long as I continued my life in exile and never resumed my former identity I was safe. Not that I had any choice…I was stuck being a female forever.

I slipped out of my room just as the sun was coming up, catching a nearly empty BART train back to Walnut Creek. I stared vacantly out the window, in a deep funk. I could never go back to being a man.

Cissy didn’t show up for work that morning, or ever again. Thanks to her bogus employment application, she vanished without a trace.

* * *

That afternoon, back in my cotton dress, leggings and flats from the House of Fabulous, I was once again on a BART train, only on my way to Berkeley this time. My stint as a receptionist, living 24/7 as a woman, had taught me a lot more about myself than just my legal and medical status: I’d learned that I could cope with being female a lot easier than I could cope with being poor.

In fact, now that I knew there was no hope of regaining my manhood, it was easier to accept and even enjoy the little upsides to being a woman that helped to compensate for all the hassles. Life was certainly less stressful without all that testosterone driving me to prove myself, and I found myself taking pleasure in simple things, like the way it felt right now to be a pretty girl in a cute dress, strolling once again the beautiful campus, savoring the sights and sounds that in my prior life would have gone unnoticed in my rush to make my next million. If only I could have my cake and eat it too….

The location of the Biology building was seared in my memory. For the third time, I made my way to the laboratory where my life had changed forever. The door was locked, and I milled around in the hallway, reading the notices and advertisements on a cluttered bulletin board until I spied Nomo Hung walking down the hall, striking in black slacks, heels and a flowing silk blouse.

I waited until she unlocked her door, before poking my head in with a big smile. “Hi!” I said. “Got a minute?”

She gave me a quizzical look. “Do I know you? Oh wait, you’re the psych major who interviewed me for your paper, right?” I was wearing the same dress, which helped her make the connection.

“Yep. Although we met again last night, remember?”

An ashen expression came over her beautiful face. “Oh God!” she gasped. “You saw me…”

“You were amazing, Jade.”

She strode over to the door and closed it behind me. “Please sit down. What do you want?” she asked tersely.

“What makes you think I want something?”

“Please, whoever you are, don’t tell anyone.”

“Gee, do you think your colleagues on the faculty would be upset? What’s a little moonlighting? Maybe if they came to see you, they’d be big tippers.”

“Please, don’t do this to me. What do you want?” she asked again.

“I have a business proposition for you.”

“Blackmail?”

“Of course not. A straight business deal. And to prove I’m not trying to take advantage of you, I’ll let you in on a little secret. We’ve met once before.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Where.”

“Here. In this laboratory. Only I looked a little different. And so did you.”

She stared at me with an open mouth. “Oh my God…”

“That’s right. I’m the maniac who attacked you when you were Dr. Lo.”

“Who are you?”

“Your new best friend.”

She lowered her head into her hands, shaking with sobs. “Please, what do you want from me?”

“Listen, sister, you and I have a lot in common. You have your secrets, and I have mine. And we both lost our balls, thanks to that fucking pesticide. I need your help.”

“How can I help you now? There’s no cure. If there were, do you think I’d still be like this?”

“I don’t know, you seem to be making it just fine as a chick.”

“Believe me, it’s not by choice. Although once I realized that I could never go back, I decided to try to make the best of it. It hasn’t been all bad,” she conceded. Incredibly, we found ourselves talking to each other like two women, and a strange bond began to develop between us, impelled by the unique experience which we’d both been through.

“Is that why you started dancing? To have a little fun with it?” I asked.

“I suppose so. After all the grieving over what I’ve lost, and the pressures of maintaining my academic standing while trying to deal with the publicity and embarrassment, I have to find ways to escape for a little while….”

“Your secret’s safe with me. Tell me about pheminyze.”

“How did you learn about that?”

“I’m very resourceful. Is it true that pheminyze is the active ingredient in Atrazine which turns males into females?”

“Yes.”

“Can it be isolated and administered safely?”

“I don’t know, the question has never occurred to me. Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Are you kidding? Across San Francisco Bay there’s a ready-made market for it, and that’s just scratching the surface…do you have any idea what percentage of the population around the world is transgendered?”

“You mean as in thinking they were born into the wrong bodies? I don’t know…I’ve done a lot of research into the phenomenon since I started to change…hundreds of thousands of people, perhaps millions, in the United States alone.”

“Exactly, and the vast majority of them are men who wish they were women. Do you have any idea how much money we could make?”

“I can’t be associated with anything like that!”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it! You just have to take care of the science…trust me, if they handed out Nobel Prizes for setting up shell companies with silent partners, I’d have one too.”

For the first time, she actually smiled. “You are a bad girl,” she scolded me.

“Better to be a rich bitch than a working stiff,” I replied.

* * *

One year to the day after the Atrazine disaster, I awoke at my customary hour of noon, stretching and yawning in my satin peignoir. How shall I amuse myself today? I pondered as I threw back the luxurious silk sheets. Which of the hot outfits in my room-sized closet shall I wear tonight? After I fired up the espresso machine, I stepped onto the terrace of my Russian Hill penthouse, contemplating my good fortune while I contentedly smoked a cigarette. Looking down at the working girls heading off to lunch on the sidewalk far below, I wondered how many of them were happy customers of pheminyze?

The Best Man
 © 2012 by Nom de Plume

The cellphone in my purse rang insistently as I pulled into the parking space outside my apartment. I fished it out and glanced down to see whether I should answer as a man or a woman. It was Jim! “I thought you were on your honeymoon. Had it with married life already?”
“It’s a long story, bro. I’m on my way over.”
“Over from where?”
“The airport. We’re getting drunk tonight.” He hung up before I could say anything. In a panic, I dashed through the parking lot and up the stairs to my apartment, as fast as my skirt and sandals would let me. Twenty minutes! That’s all the time I had to transform myself back into a guy, hide my girl stuff, and make my apartment look like it wasn’t a woman’s.
“Damn him!” I muttered to myself as I kicked my sandals under the bed, noting as I did that my painted toes and shaved legs meant I’d better put jeans and sneakers on…why was Jim back in town anyway? Hadn’t he booked two weeks in Maui? I mused as I scrubbed off my makeup and went to work on my manicure…what a waste! “Damn him!” a muttered again. I tossed my wig under the vanity and stepped into a cold shower, just long enough to wash away the lingering scent of my cologne. A few minutes later, I was pulling on a rugby shirt and surveying my apartment for tell-tale signs off femininity. I finished getting dressed and ran a comb through my wet hair after I made sure that all the fashion magazines were safely tucked away. I looked around my bedroom one last time, sweeping some loose jewelry into a dresser drawer and closing my closet door as the doorbell rang.
He looked like hell, if you can say that about a guy with a face like a film star and an All American’s physique. Even his Hawaiian tan couldn’t conceal the lines under his eyes, which had taken on a sadness I’d never seen before. “Dude, why are you here? Where’s Julie?”
“Still in Maui,” he sighed as he crashed onto my sofa. “I hope she stays there.”
“That bad?”
I popped two Coronas and handed one to him. He threw half of it down in one long swig and finished it off with a burp. “Her parting words yesterday were, ‘You must be gay.’ What a bitch! How could you let me go through it?”
“Whoa, cowboy, don’t blame me. I tried to talk you out of it, remember?”
“I know, dammit, it’s my own fucking fault. She’s hot, she’s rich, and she’s a total bitch.”
“Two out of three ain’t bad,” I said in a lame attempt at a joke.
“You try spending the rest of your life with a diva.”
“But you guys were great together…” I said half-heartedly.
“Listen, Chris, you know me better than anybody on earth. We’ve been friends since second grade, we double-dated more times than I can remember, and you were best man at my wedding. You knew I was making a mistake, and you tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen to you, and now I’m fucked.”
* * *
“Beeeeep…….beeeeeep………beeeeeeep!” I pulled a pillow over my ears. Why the hell were the garbage guys here so early? They never got to my apartment before I left for work….”Work!” I shouted like Maynard G. Krebs, sitting up with a start. A glance at the clock on my nightstand confirmed the worst: it was almost noon!
I got out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. My head felt like a punching bag, and my tongue tasted like an old sneaker. Standing over the bowl in my tee shirt and shorts, I viewed the sad remnants of the burger and fries I’d thrown down, then back up, last night between many, many beers with Jim. How the hell did we get home last night? Jim didn’t actually drive in his condition, did he? Was he as wrecked as I was?
A groan from the living room answered that question. I found him splayed out on the sofa, looking like death warmed over. “My head,” he moaned.
“How many beers did we have last night?”
“I stopped counting at twenty. Twelve for me, eight for you.” Since Jim outweighed me by 100 pounds, he was probably in better shape than I was, which wasn’t saying much. And I was the one who had to get to work! I sat down at my computer and began scrolling through my emails to see if I’d been missed. I was in luck: my boss was out of town, and my assistant had phoned in sick. With any luck, I’d be able to get in before anyone was the wiser. I was about to log off when I glanced down, horrified to realize that my shaved legs and bright pink toenails were there for Jim to see.
I pushed back my chair and raced to my bedroom. “Gotta get ready for work,” I shouted as I slammed the door, but not before I glanced back at Jim to see him sitting up with the strangest look on his face. I threw up again in the shower, managed somehow to shave without killing myself, and felt almost human by the time I’d brushed my teeth and swallowed half a dozen aspirin. Meanwhile Jim had pulled himself together enough to fire up Mr. Coffee, and when I emerged from my bedroom in a coat and tie, he handed me a mug and asked if he could crash in my apartment for the rest of the day. “No problem,” I shouted on my way out the door.
Jim’s car, although parked between two spots at a crazy angle, seemed to be undamaged, I noticed as I zoomed off to work. Soon my mind was consumed by my real world problems, and it never occurred to me that I’d left my computer on, password unprotected, my innermost secrets exposed.
* * *
Most of my cohorts were blessedly still at lunch when I pulled into the garage, and I was able to make it to my cubicle unnoticed. I fought back waves of nausea most of the afternoon, getting caught up on emails and phone messages, although my brain was still too fried for serious work. I found my mind wandering back to my marathon conversation with Jim at the brewpub, which I could recall in fragments through an alcoholic haze.
“So you’re definitely dumping her?”
“Let’s just say it’s mutual.”
“It boggles the mind: the big wedding, all those guests, her family, your family….”
“All the swag…hell, she can keep it as far as I’m concerned, and the ring too.”
“Dude, that rock must have cost you a fortune!” Not that Jim was hurting for money: his signing bonus when he was drafted by the NFL set him up for life, thanks to some savvy investment advice from me.
“She can shove it up her ass.”
“So what happened? I thought you guys were great together. Was there like some big secret she was keeping?”
“You mean like was she really a guy?” he laughed, and I laughed along with him, in spite of myself. “Trust me, I’d drilled her enough times before I popped the question to know she was great in the sack. That wasn’t the problem.”
“So what was the problem?” Jim took a long pull on his seventh or eighth beer, and looked away from me. “Come on, buddy, you can tell me.”
“I just got sick of her.”
It didn’t add up. “You said she called you gay,” I remembered. “What was that all about?”
“Don’t want to talk about it,” Jim sulked.
How could I blame him? For years I’d struggled with my own sexual identity, hiding from everyone I knew my passion for dressing up as a woman. Thanks to my slight stature and androgynous physique, when I finally got my own apartment and screwed up the courage to venture out en femme, I’d passed effortlessly. Now I was spending more and more time in my female persona, which I found infinitely more enjoyable than life as a scrawny, geeky guy.
Jim and Julie’s wedding invitation had been a brief intrusion into my increasingly feminine world, and although I’d been honored to be his best man, as soon as they left for Maui I’d gratefully swapped my tux for skirts and dresses.
* * *
“Honey, I’m home,” I said in my best Ricky Ricardo after I finally escaped from the office. When Jim and I were frat buddies, we’d spent hours watching old TV shows, so much so that we often communicated for days at a time by mimicking whatever characters were in reruns that semester.
“Maybe you should be Lucy,” I heard from across the living room. From the direction of my computer. “Man, you’ve got some far out favorite places.” Before I could concoct an excuse, Jim pressed on. “The ladyboys from Thailand are my personal favorites.”
“Uh, yeah, some of them are smokin’ hot,” I said with every ounce of manliness I could muster.
“And all these pictures of this hot chick…I didn’t know you had a twin sister.”
My heart sank. “Uh, Jim, let me explain….”
He swiveled in my deskchair and looked me square in the eye. “Chris, I’m cool with it. I kind of figured out already that you were into something like that. Either that, or you’ve taken metrosexuality to a whole new level.”
I slunk over to the sofa and tried to lose myself in the cushions. “Jim, nobody knows about this….”
“Don’t worry buddy, your secret’s safe with me. So how long have you been dressing up as a chick? Your pix are amazing. Do you really look that good?”
I just let it myself go. “For as long as I can remember, since I was maybe five or six. I used to sneak into my mom’s closet and try on her stuff.”
“But we’ve known each other since second grade, and we were roomies for three years at State. You never slipped up once. Damn, you should have been a spy or a secret agent.”
“It’s been tough, and there’s been a lot of close calls,” I sighed.
“So what makes you do this? I mean, do you want to be a chick? Hell, you’ve dated lots of girls, do you play dressup with your dates?”
“No!” I shouted, startling Jim and myself with my intensity. “No,” I repeated in a normal voice, “none of them ever knew, and I never wanted to be a girl.”
“So have you made it with any guys?”

“No!” I shouted again, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Listen to me,” Jim said. “You don’t have anything to feel guilty about. Especially not with me,” he added softly.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not exactly straight, Chris.” You could have knocked me over with a feather. Was my best friend, an NFL tailback who’d gotten all the girls he ever wanted and made me look like a 98 pound weakling, telling me he was gay?
“Wow,” was all I could manage.
* * *
Dinner that night was a subdued affair, compared to our outrageous bender the night before. Over diet cokes and pizza, Jim poured out his troubled soul to me, recounting how many girls he’d made love to, each one sexier than the last, yet each less enjoyable as slowly but surely he came to grips with his sexuality. There were his escapades with a discreet number of guys, mostly on away games or camping trips, when I’d never been around. He wept openly about his guilt for getting married, a last-ditch effort to go straight which was doomed from the start.
When the conversation turned to me, it was almost anti-climactic. Until Jim gently prodded me to dress up for him. I thought he was kidding at first, but a strange excitement came over me at the thought of sharing this side of myself with someone. Although Jim was my closest friend, and undeniably gorgeous, I’d never been physically attracted to him. Yet there was something about his discovered vulnerability, and our shared secrets, that made me feel closer to him than I’d ever felt towards anyone, man or woman, and he was very persistent. “C’mon Chris, it’ll be fun. I’ve hung it all out for you, the least you can do is show me the girl you’ve been hiding from me all these years.”
When reluctantly I finally agreed, it was on my terms and conditions. “You will move out of here now,” I pronounced in my female voice, “and take me out on a proper date tomorrow night. Someplace nice, if you expect me to shave my legs and put on a dress for you, so don’t show up looking like a bum.”
“Yes, dear,” Jim said, and we both laughed in nervous anticipation.
* * *
Needless to say, I got next to nothing done at the office for the second day in a row. Whenever I tried to concentrate, I found myself daydreaming about my big date. What should I wear? As always, I was underdressed for work in panties, but tonight would call for something special in the way of lingerie. Thanks to my booze-induced bulimia two nights before, my waist had never been more girlish, and I’d given myself a full body shave in the shower that morning. The forecast called for an unseasonably warm evening. Sundress weather!
I slipped away a few minutes before five and flew home. Until I got on the expressway…traffic was a bitch, and by the time I got back to my apartment, I had less than an hour to get dressed for Jim! I tore off my clothes, raced into the bathroom and started the tub, pouring more than the usual amount of bubble bath into the swirling hot water. I gave my face an extra-smooth shave and hopped in, luxuriating for a few blissful moments in the piles of hot bubbles before I ran my daisy razor over my legs once again. Then I lay back, pointed my painted toes and kicked my feet girlishly in delight. Enough of this foolishness, what if Jim could see me now? I emerged from the suds to prepare myself for my first ever date with a man.
After patting myself dry with a thirsty towel, I moisturized from head to toe with an expensive crá¨me from France. Then, with the towel wrapped around my feminized body, I went to work on my makeup, taking more time than usual to line my eyes, mascara my lashes, shadow my eyelids, blush my cheeks and gloss my lips. I’d have to rely on myself for my manicure, but I was pretty good at it by now in in no time my nails were glistening. Then it was time for my wig, which I patiently styled and brushed until it was perfect. I gazed for a long time at my reflection in the mirror, and the pretty girl who now was me smiled back. Poor Jim…he didn’t have a chance!
Time to get dressed! I decided to wear what any girl would wear on a hot, sultry night for a date with her best friend: nothing fancy, just a bra, panties, sandals and a sundress. So I tucked my sorry manhood into my white lace padded panties, snapped on my lacy white bra, tucked in my magnificent silicone breastforms, and slithered into my green and white sundress. Turning this way and that in front of the full-length mirror after I zipped myself up, I took a moment to admire my waspish waist and deeply tanned legs. Poor Jim…he didn’t have a chance!
A glance at the clock on the nightstand brought me back to reality. He’ll be here any minute! I stepped into my strappy white sandals, sifted through my jewelry box for just the right bling — an opal pendant which was perfect with my dress, matching earrings, a woman’s watch, and some simple rings — and finished myself off with an extra spritz of my most expensive cologne. The confident young woman looking back at me in the mirror was drop-dead gorgeous. Poor Jim…he didn’t have a chance!
I was organizing my white purse when I heard his knock on the door. Let him wait a minute, I said to myself as I finished with my purse and gave myself one last inspection. Then I waltzed to the door and opened it with a smile. He was handsome as hell in a light blue blazer and gray slacks, and I could tell from the look on his face that he was delighted with me as a woman. “Look at you!” he said with genuine surprise. “You’re a knockout!”
“Thanks,” I said with a girlish lisp. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Come, milady, your chariot awaits.”
“In a minute. Here, make yourself useful,” I said, handing him my purse. He stood there and held it awkwardly with an amused look on his face while I rummaged through the hall closet for my little white cropped sweater with short sleeves. “In case it gets cold in the restaurant,” I explained, relieving him of my purse. So where are you taking me?” I asked as he escorted me to his Porsche.
“To be honest, I made two reservations: one at a drag bar, in case you…well, you know, and one at the Four Crowns.” I punched him on the arm, hard. “Ouch! Where did that come from? The downside of dating a guy…don’t worry, we’re going to the Four Crowns.”
I took his arm and smiled up at him. Jim was almost a foot taller than me, and in my little sundress, I felt so petite next to him, even though my sandals had 2” heels! “I’ve always wanted to go there as a girl,” I said as he held the passenger door open for me. I plopped myself delicately down on the bucket seat and caught him staring at my legs before he gently closed the door. I played with my dress, tugging it just above my knees while he scurried around the back of his car, and checked my reflection in the visor mirror before I sat back contentedly in the plush leather seat. This was going to be fun!
“So how does it feel, Chris? Can I call you Chris?” he asked as he drove, deftly brushing my knee with the back of his hand while he worked the gears.
We were headed straight into the evening sun, so I took my sunglasses out of my purse. “Chris or Crissy…how does what feel?”
“How does it feel to be all dolled up like that? Are you comfortable?”
I closed my eyes and took a mental inventory of my sensations. How could I begin to describe my feelings at that moment? For as long as I could remember, dressing up as a girl had been an incredible rush. Just the thought of those wonderful, forbidden clothes against my skin was enough to send my dopamine levels through the roof. As my journey across the gender frontier progressed, to the point where I became able to pass through the world as a pretty woman, those feelings had intensified and become addictive, and now I was living my ultimate fantasy: being the girl on a date with a cool guy. How could I ever expect Jim to understand these things? “It feels nice,” I said at length.
“It shows,” he said. “I’ve never seen you look happier. And you’re a heck of a lot better looking as a chick. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way,” he added quickly.
“Nope,” I smiled. “I know I look better this way. I should have been born a girl.”
He pulled up in front of the Four Crowns and this time it was the valet who ogled my legs when I emerged from the Porsche. “How did you get so damn good at this?” Jim whispered as I took his arm again.
“Practice, practice, practice.”
He opened the massive door and waited for me to step inside before he put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me to the maitre’d. “Smith, reservation for two.”
Now it was my turn to whisper as we were lead to a romantic booth in a dark corner of the elegant restaurant. “Mr. Smith? How original.” I waited for him to pull back my chair, draped my sweater over the back and sat down with a swoosh of sundress. The white table cloth was resplendent with china, crystal and silver, and a waiter materialized to unfold my linen napkin. I took off my sunglasses and perched them on top of my head, and for the first time Jim and I sat face to face, staring for a long time into each other’s eyes. “I guess that makes me the other woman, Mr. Smith.”
“Last week you were the best man at my wedding. Now it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time, and I can’t take my eyes off you,” he said, taking my hand. “Everything about you is so feminine.”
I felt a delicious stirring in my panties. “Down boy,” I said, as much to myself as to him.
The waiter returned to break the spell. Jim asked me if I’d like a drink, and my mind raced…what was the girliest cocktail? “A Cosmo,” I said.
“And a Manhattan for me,” Jim ordered. We resumed our small talk, and in spite of the strange circumstances, we soon lapsed into familiar conversation, except as man and woman, chatting about this and that as if we were any other couple. When I glanced at my menu, Jim asked me what I’d like, and I had the thrill of my life when the waiter returned and Jim said smoothly, “The lady will have….” I looked around the crowded restaurant from time to time, and was relieved to see that nobody was paying the slightest attention to us. It was like we were the only two people in the world, sharing this incredible secret.
“How long have you known you were gay?” I asked between bites.
“I was in denial for a long time. I’m still ashamed to admit it. It’s not like I’m the only guy in the NFL who’s gay, believe me. But I fought it every step of the way, and I never wanted to be different.”
“So you got married to Julie.”
He hung his head. “Biggest mistake of my life.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Annulment.”
“She’s going to take you to the cleaners.”
“Prenup.”
“Well played. Now what?”
“Well, I’m not quite ready to come out as Bruiser LaRue.” I gave him a quizzical look. “He was the caricature of a gay quarterback on that old AM radio station we used to listen to.”
“I remember,” I laughed. “I doubt if your sponsors would dig that.”
“And they don’t sell that many NFL jerseys in the Castro. You must think I’m a total hypocrite.”
“Jim, we’ve been friends since second grade. You don’t have to apologize to me about anything. Anyway, who am I to judge? I’m the one who’s sitting here in a dress, who’s been living a secret life for as long as you’ve known me.”
He took my hand again. “Thanks for being such a good friend, Chris…I mean Crissy.” He slid his hand up my arm and shook his head. “I can’t get over it. Your skin is so smooth, just like a girl’s.”
I felt that stirring in my panties again. “I thought you weren’t attracted to girls,” I teased him.
“So did I.” Once again, the waiter broke the spell when he returned with the check. I took my lipgloss out of my purse and freshened my face with a few deft strokes. When I looked up, Jim was staring at me again. He watched intently while I tugged on my little sweater and slung my purse over my shoulder. “Damn,” he said, “it’s like you’ve been doing this all your life.”
“Since I moved into my own apartment, I’ve been making up for lost time,” I said while we waited for Jim’s car. He opened my door for me, and once again I could tell he was staring at my legs, just as I used to on the rare evenings when I talked a girl into going out with me, a lifetime ago….
We didn’t say much during the drive back to my place. We were each lost on our own separate thoughts, trying to process what we’d learned about each other, and our feelings. On a superficial level, I was thrilled to be a pretty girl on a date, and I never wanted it to end, but there was something deeper going on that I couldn’t deny, and I wondered what Jim would think if he knew.
When he pulled into my apartment complex, I asked him if he’d like to come up for a cup of coffee. “Sure,” he said, and I took his arm as he walked me up the stairs. He sat down tentatively on the sofa where he’d spent most of the past few days, while I puttered in the kitchen until the coffee was ready. Then I handed him his mug and sat down beside him, demurely sipping mine in awkward silence. “Can I tell you something?” he finally asked.
“Uh oh.”
Jim slid next to me and gently took my mug from my hands. “Promise you won’t get mad at me?”
“Let me guess…you’ve always had a thing for chicks with dicks?”
“No, Crissy. I’ve always had a thing for you.”
Twenty-four hours ago, that would have seemed impossible, incredible…now it seemed strangely natural, and the stirring in my panties returned. “Come on, Jim, you really can’t expect me to believe that…the big man on campus had a crush on the runt of the fraternity?”
“It’s true, from way before then…when we were in Mrs. Penn’s class and you always let me copy off you, and you were always reading those brainiac books, I wanted you to like me.”
“Is that why you wanted to double date all the time, even when you had to set me up with a girl? Are you saying you really wanted to be getting it on with me?”
“No, silly, I wouldn’t have dared even think that back then. I just admired you, that’s all, and felt a little sorry for you too.”
“Because I was such a loser. I suppose that’s why I got a mercy bid to your fraternity when I followed you off to college.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, and he put his arm around my shoulder. I felt myself tremble as his hand caressed my bare skin, then his other hand slid under my dress and stopped a few inches from my throbbing panties, gently stroking my thigh. He leaned in and before I could turn away, he brushed my lips with a gentle kiss. He lingered there, backed off for a moment, then he kissed me again, a deep, passionate kiss that curled my toes and rewired my brain and body forever. It was like somebody threw a switch: one minute I was a guy in a dress, and the next all I wanted was to be Jim’s woman, to become as intimate with him as our imaginations dared, to feel this way forever. I threw myself into that kiss, exploring him with my tongue, until we finally came up for air. “Wow,” he panted.
“Me too.” I searched his eyes and wondered if my best friend could possibly be my soulmate? So what if we were born the same gender? No one had ever touched me like this. Who was to say something that felt so right could really be wrong?
Sometimes there are words that express our innermost feelings, and sometimes words don’t matter. Jim took my hand, stood up and said four words that were to change my life. “Let’s go to bed.” I followed him docilely into my bedroom, then stood facing him while he gently unzipped my dress, which fell in a puddle to the floor. I kicked off my shoes and started to unbutton his shirt. When I was finished, I unfastened his belt and unzipped his slacks. The bulge in his briefs was enormous! Then he picked me up, with one hand tucked under my thighs and the other wrapped around my shoulders, and gently laid me down on the covers.
I snuggled down in my pillows and waited for him to make the next move, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have a man undress me and climb into my bed. My life was changing at warp speed, and I wanted to savor every sensation, remember every moment, of the mind-bending journey Jim was taking me on. He didn’t disappoint, tenderly kissing me from head to toe, and I followed his lead. God, what a body he had! Shaved as smooth as mine, but ripped and hard as iron, he’d have made me feel like a girl by comparison even if I hadn’t been wearing a bra and panties. Not for long…he tugged my panties down to my knees, then he dove between my legs and started to suck me. It felt so wickedly delicious! Instinctively, I started to play with him too, and then I took him into my mouth, wanting him to feel the same thing I was feeling. My head was spinning. Was I really going sixty-nine with a sexual athlete? Together we shared a rising crescendo of desire until I knew we couldn’t hold out much longer…when I felt him start to throb it triggered my own orgasm, at once so familiar yet now so new, like the very first time, sensations like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was sheer ecstasy, waves of indescribable pleasure pulsing through me as we came simultaneously, feeding each other with our sweet seeds.
We came down to earth, a jumble of conflicting thoughts in my head. I just had sex with my best friend. A guy. And I liked it. No, I loved it. I’m gay. What’s he thinking? Is he going to get up and leave me now? Can we ever be friends again? I looked up at Jim, who had an impish look on his face. He pulled me close and kissed me on the forehead. “Was it good for you?”
“I think I’ve died and gone to Heaven.”
“Whew.”
“Huh?”
“I thought maybe I was moving too fast with you.”
“And I thought you’d be halfway out the door by now.”
“You thought I was a love ‘em and leave ‘em kinda guy?”
“Well, I do remember certain post-date horror stories when you got back to the frat house….”
“That was then.”
“And now? What just happened to us, Jim?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Crissy.” He kissed me again, on the lips, a deep, passionate kiss that started me stirring again. A practical problem: I hadn’t been to the bathroom since before I turned myself into a woman, and nature was calling, desperately.
“Don’t go away,” I told him as I slipped off the bed and into the bathroom. Yikes! I said to myself when I saw my reflection in the mirror. My wig and makeup were a total mess! After I took care of business, I went to work with a hairbrush and lipstick, then before I went back to bed I had an inspiration. From my closet I fetched my black and pink babydoll nightie with a matching thong, and a black velvet choker with a pink ribbon. I’d fallen in love with them when I saw them at Victoria’s Secret, and always wanted to wear them…now or never! I took off my bra and slithered into the nightie, which was clingy enough to create a hint of cleavage over my flat chest. After I fastened the choker and stepped into the thong, for the hell of it I grabbed a pair of sheer black thigh high stockings and minced back to the bedroom, where Jim was waiting impatiently.
“Wow,” he said. “Where have you been all my life?”
I perched on the edge of the bed and began sliding on a stocking, reveling in the sensation of nylon against my skin. “Right under your nose, big boy,” I said. “I thought you weren’t attracted to the female form?” I finished putting on my stockings, stood up and did a little twirl for him.
“I’ll make an exception in your case. C’mere, you,” he said, patting the bed next to him.
I curled up next to him. “What did you have in mind?” I asked coquettishly.
“I’m going to make a woman out of you. Do you have a condom?”
“Goodness! What kind of girl do you think I am? They’re in the nightstand.”
I watched him tear open a package with extra-lube and roll it onto his hardening penis. I was still soft, but that wasn’t going to matter…he told me to lie down, very much the man in charge, then he slid a pillow under my butt. Off came my thong, and the next thing I knew Jim was on top of me, gently probing my quivering rosebud. I gasped when he entered me and I must have cried a little because he whispered “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be gentle” as he made his way deeper and deeper into me. The shock and pain soon gave way to an incredible feeling of fulfillment and raw, carnal pleasure as he had his way with me, in and out, in and out, like a piston penetrating my innermost defenses, and I surrendered willingly, it felt so damn good! At some point I wrapped my legs around his neck, and the sensation of nylon against his skin drove him wild…in and out, in and out, deeper and deeper he went, until he clenched his teeth and his breathing became heavier and heavier….”Oh baby, I’m gonna cum soon!” he moaned, and I felt myself beginning to lose control, in a way I never had before. It couldn’t be possible, I was still soft but I felt the beginnings of my own orgasm welling up deep inside me, like a woman’s orgasm, and my whole body shuddered when Jim cried out, “Yes! Yes!” and I felt him in my tummy, powerful pulses that I knew so well, yet could not compare to the feelings of ecstasy that overwhelmed me as I climaxed around him in spasms of sheer delight that went on and on and on….
“Are we having fun yet?” Jim whispered when I finally opened my eyes. Gently, slowly, he pulled himself out of me, which felt so delicious that I thought I was going to have another orgasm. He cuddled me close, gently stroking me, and we lay there in silence for what seemed an eternity, as our heartbeats gradually returned to normal. Normal…what was normal for me anymore? I’d just been made love to as a woman. I’d just made love to a man. My universe was spinning out of control. “Talk to me,” Jim finally said to break my trance.
“Was it good for you?” as if I needed to ask.
“The best. You’re amazing.”
“I feel like a dishrag.”
“You’re too pretty.”
“Do you realize that we just had two simultaneous orgasms? A lot of people live their whole lives without ever experiencing that, even once….”
“Wanna go for three?”
“I wanna go for a lifetime,” I blurted out, without thinking. Stupid, silly me!
Then came the biggest surprise of all. “I love you.”
“You do? Really?”
“Yes, I guess I always have, and now I know for sure.”
“Oh Jim, this is all happening so fast! I love you too.”
We kissed, a long, sweet, tender kiss, a man and wife type kiss. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“That’s good. When we were kids, I usually did the thinking for you.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. We could make quite a team.”
“As long you’re the one who wears the pants, and I get to be the girl.”
“Wouldn’t that bum you out, pretending to be my girl?”
“Are you kidding? Sounds like a blast, if you think we can pull it off.”
“Oh, you can pull it off all right, baby. Tonight at the restaurant, I was the envy of every guy in the place.”
“And I was the envy of every girl in the place. Where’s this going, Jim?”
A long pause. Then, “Can you take a little time off from work?”
“Sure, why?”
“Well, I paid for two weeks in Maui, and I hate to see that second week go to waste….”

A return to the salon for boys who should have been girls

The House of Fabulous

Copyright 2004 by Nom de Plume

For those who missed "[Skirting the Law]", the players are:

Charles Bigelow, hard-charging CEO of Tyrex Industries, who has a heart attack when...
Terry Poindexter comes to work in a dress, much to the delight of...
Gail Chestnut, his stunningly attractive executive secretary, and...
Doyle Rogers, a senior executive with a secret, who is destined for a date with...
Madam Fabulous.

* * *

"You have a dinner date already? It's only your first day as a woman! I'm beginning to believe my own advertisements," Madam Fabulous said into the speakerphone while she sifted through some paperwork on her Queen Anne desk.

"It's with one of our senior executives," Terry Poindexter explained. "We'll be discussing business, but he's taking me to the Carnelian Room."

"How elegant! That white and blue dress I picked out for you last night would be perfect."

"Are you sure it's fancy enough?"

"Of course. It looks lovely on you. You can dress it up with the matching pashmina Sissy got you."

"Do you mean the blue shawl?"

"Um hmm. You have nothing to worry about, my dear. It's winter, so go with the blue shoes and purse. Have a wonderful time, and please call me tomorrow and tell me all about it."

Terry hung up the phone and swiveled his plush leather chair around to glance at the diary on his credenza. He had no engagements that evening, as usual. With a girlish hand, he wrote "Dinner with Doyle" at the bottom of the page, and then he turned to his computer and began sifting through the day's email messages. He tried to take his mind off the fact that he was dressed as a woman, but every time he saw his polished fingers flying over the keyboard, his predicament was brought home. With a sigh of resignation, he kicked off his heels, tucked his stockinged feet under his skirt, and turned his attention to the legal problems of Tyrex Industries.

He spent most of the afternoon researching the ins and outs of hostile takeovers, and did some online digging into Great White, LLC, the company which had launched a tender offer that morning. What he saw wasn't good: fueled by buckets of cash from a New York investment bank, Great White was on a buying binge for undervalued companies, and they looked unstoppable. It was hard for Terry not to think about his personal situation as he scrolled through the SEC filings on his screen. Once Great White acquired a controlling interest in Tyrex Industries, they would be perfectly within their rights to replace all of the company's officers, and of course he would be the first to go when they discovered that he wore women's clothing to work. Unless he could find a way to stop this takeover, his career and his reputation were on the road to ruin.

He thought about returning to work the next day in his male persona, and abandoning his scheme to get Tyrex Industries to pay him off. But after a quick glance at the canons of legal ethics, he abandoned that idea as even more risky. As a company lawyer, he had fiduciary obligations to his employer, and if it were revealed that he tried to goad them into giving him a severance package under false pretenses, his license to practice law would be in jeopardy.

Utterly absorbed by his legal and personal misfortunes, Terry lost complete track of time, and he sat up with a start when Gail Chestnut, his gorgeous executive assistant, came into the office. "It's almost five o'clock," she said. "Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?"

He debated about asking her for another blow job, but thought the better of it. "Not that I can think of," he said.

"Did you see the announcement about Mr. Bigelow?"

"No, I was too caught up with Lexis/Nexis."

"He's in intensive care at Saint Francis, but it looks like he's going to pull through. Doyle Rogers has been named interim CEO."

"That's nice."

"Well, have fun with Doyle tonight," she said with a wink. "I can't wait to hear all about it tomorrow. Or even better, call me when you get home, if you feel like a little girl talk." She spun on her heel and left before he could think of a response.

* * *

Terry left the office a few minutes later. He ignored the gapes and stares of employees who had heard about his transformation but had to see him to believe it. It wasn't until he stepped out onto Montgomery Street that it occurred to him that he was wearing a disguise. The people at Tyrex Industries might have regarded him as an oddity, but the strangers on the street regarded him as a woman. To his relief, there were no strange looks or double-takes, only an occasional leer from a man sizing him up as a potential score. He rode the Muni back to his neighborhood without incident, and it was almost six o'clock when he let himself into his apartment.

Two hours to get ready for his first date! Well, not really his first date -- he'd had his share of one night stands and disastrous blind dates as a man, but never a serious relationship. Maybe his luck as a woman would be better, he thought ruefully as he peeled off his lingerie and stockings and drew a hot bath. After the stresses of the day, and the spectacular sex with Gail under his desk, the raging erections which had plagued him since his transformation the previous day were strangely absent, he noticed as he sank with relief into the hot suds. Even though it meant he would have to dry and style his hair, he dunked his head and held his breath for as long as he could, as if that might suspend time and forestall his date with another man.

Eventually, he dried himself off, wrapped a towel around his wet head like a turban, and dusted his body with fragrant powder from the House of Fabulous. Once again, he pampered himself with moisturizing creme before applying his makeup, which went on quicker and easier this time. A learned trait, he mused while running a blow dryer over his hair. Would styling his new shag hairdo come to him as easily? It did, although it took longer than he anticipated getting it just so. It was well past seven when he gaffed himself and returned to his closet to get dressed for the evening.

Let's see, what lingerie and stockings went with his dress and shoes? Terry selected a white bra and panties and the full white slip that Sissy told him to wear under his new dress. He opened a package of sheer nude pantyhose, savoring their caress as he smoothed them on. His exhausted penis came momentarily to life despite its restraints, and Terry tried to ignore it, carefully lowering his dress over his head and pulling it up to his shoulders. As he reached back to zip it up, the lacy hem of his slip peeked out from under his dress, and another spark of arousal was stifled by the unforgiving gaff. Terry's cheeks were blushing through his makeup as he stepped into his navy blue pumps and surveyed himself in the mirror. Holy shit, he said to himself. I'm a knockout.

A dazed Terry took his pashmina out of his dresser and experimented with how to wrap it around his back and shoulders. Somehow it added grace and femininity to his already stunning reflection, and by the time he finished himself off with some jewelry and cologne, Terry was actually shaking. Not with fear and dread over the prospect of going out on a date with a man, but with shock and awe over the enormity of his transformation.

It was almost eight o'clock by the time he picked up his blue purse and headed for the door.

* * *

Doyle Rogers sat anxiously at a table for two overlooking the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge. What was I thinking, he asked himself for the hundredth time, suggesting that Terry Poindexter meet me for dinner? Here of all places, at a restaurant widely acknowledged as the most romantic in San Francisco. The little table was covered with crystal and flowers, and Doyle fidgeted nervously with his thick linen napkin, wondering if it was too late for him to call Terry and make up some excuse.

Who was he trying to kid? The moment Doyle saw Terry Poindexter dressed as a woman in Charles Bigelow's office, he felt a rush of envy and excitement. For years, he had kept his secret hidden during his relentless climb up the corporate ladder. Now that he was on the brink of success, his long-repressed urges threatened to boil over.

Doyle Rogers had yearned to be a girl from the moment he became aware that there were two sexes. His earliest childhood memory was when he was three years old and his older sisters dressed him up as a princess for Halloween. During his adolescence, he dreamed of sneaking into their bedroom and trying on their clothes, but the risk of exposure was too great a deterrent. He threw his energies instead into amateur theater, winning roles in student productions and community playhouses that enabled him at least to wear makeup and don the occasional female costume. Strikingly handsome, he had become sought-after as a leading man in regional theatrical circles, but when it came time for college his uptight parents steered him away from Broadway or Hollywood and into a career in business and finance. There he had labored, mechanically climbing rung after rung while his secret lay deep beneath the surface.

Until this morning, when he saw Terry Poindexter dressed as a woman. If a dweeb like Terry had the courage to come out of the closet, why couldn't he? For Doyle, the prospect of transforming himself into a woman was not sexually arousing. Unlike Terry, he was a true transsexual, although he had married and divorced twice in vain attempts to achieve respectability. Now that the brass ring at Tyrex Industries was within his grasp, Doyle Rogers instinctively started reaching for his ultimate objective, even if achieving it would mean his downfall.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a striking woman in a blue and white dress coming towards his table. Doyle could only stare as the maitre'd pulled back the opposing chair and Terry sat down gracefully, taking off his shawl and spreading it across the back of his chair before he turned to face Doyle. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "It takes so much longer getting ready these days."

"You look...marvelous," Doyle stammered.

"Thanks," Terry said with the casual assurance of a woman who is used to being told that she is beautiful. "I still have a hard time believing it's really me when I look in the mirror."

A waiter interrupted them with menus and a wine list. After Doyle ordered a very expensive bottle of chardonnay, he began to pepper Terry with questions. "How long have you known that you wanted to become a woman?"

Terry weighed his words carefully. "It's hard to say." The less said about himself, the better. Doyle was his boss now, and if he even suspected that Terry's masquerade was a scam, he would be out on his ear.

"Have you been dressing up like this for a long time?"

Better be careful here. Once caught in a lie, everything could unravel. "Not really."

"I find that hard to believe."

How to turn the conversation to business? Terry saw his opportunity when the waiter returned with their wine. After Doyle went through the tasting ritual, Terry raised his glass and offered a toast. "To the new CEO of Tyrex Industries. Congratulations, Doyle."

When they sipped their glasses, the wine ricocheted off Terry's empty stomach and went straight to his head. Feeling slightly woozy, he grabbed a breadstick and began to nibble on it, trying to act ladylike while maintaining control of the conversation. "We're in a tough spot, Doyle. I did some research on Great White today."

Reluctantly, Doyle shifted gears. After all, he was supposed to be having dinner with his general counsel, at company expense, not indulging in secret fantasies. "Tell me what you learned."

"For starters, we can't just blow them off. The letter from Great White is what is known as a 'bear hug'. Because our stock is so low, thanks to the bumbling of Charles Bigelow, Great White's offer is reasonably attractive to our shareholders, and the board will have to give it serious consideration."

"The board has agreed to meet with representatives of Great White in two days to formally consider the offer."

"Do you know who's coming?"

"Yes. Their Chairman, Darwin DeVour, and the head of a New York investment bank."

"Probably Lance Raptor of Carnivore Capital."

"That's right." The waiter returned to take their orders. Although he hadn't had a square meal in almost two days, Terry resisted the temptation to order the biggest steak on the menu, reluctantly selecting a pasta dish. Doyle ordered sea bass, then asked him, "How did you know about Carnivore?"

"I pulled up the history of Great White's recent acquisitions on Lexis this afternoon. DeVour has been cutting a swath through corporate America funded by Carnivore. They're probably in San Francisco tonight plotting our demise."

"Right again. When the board asked me to confirm the meeting, I called DeVour's secretary in New York, and she gave me the number of his suite at the Mark Hopkins. When I called, Raptor answered the phone."

"They're the world's last authentic playboys."

"I beg your pardon?"

"According to an article I read on Lexis, DeVour and Raptor have a history of carousing together the night before they go in for the kill. No woman in San Francisco will be safe tomorrow night." As he said it, the germ of an idea began to grow in Terry's mind. It was crazy, but no more so than his current situation. Maybe the wine was starting to go to his head.

"Too bad we can't get close to them," Doyle said. "If we could find out what their strategy was, we might be able to outmaneuver them in front of the board."

You just read my mind, Terry said to himself. He surveyed Doyle's handsome face as he took another sip of wine. With his sculptured features, high cheekbones and fair skin, he might make a better-looking woman than Terry. Give Madam Fabulous a few hours with him, and....

The waiter presented their salads. Terry took a few dainty bites before he floated the thought across the table. "There might be a way, Doyle, but it would be highly unorthodox."

"We have nothing to lose at this point. Unless we do something dramatic, we're going to be hitting the bricks by the end of the week. I don't think that will be much fun in high heels. Come on, counselor," Doyle smiled. "If you have an idea in that pretty little head of yours, let's hear it."

"You spent some time in the theatre, didn't you?" Terry asked, already knowing the answer from Doyle's company bio.

"My first love," Doyle said. "Underneath this button-down facade beats the heart of a frustrated thespian."

"Have you ever played a woman's part?"

The question was so unexpected that Doyle laughed out loud, drawing stares from the nearby tables. "What makes you ask that?" he countered with forced nonchalance.

"Because my idea would entail an undercover operation on our part. Tell me, Doyle, have you ever heard of the House of Fabulous?"

Doyle could barely conceal his excitement. How many times had he seen those advertisements and dreamed! From park benches and passing busses, the House of Fabulous beckoned to "boys who should have been girls." Now he was being presented with the perfect cover! When he responded by saying, "I don't think so," the lie was so transparent that Terry began to wonder about Doyle's acting ability.

Their entrees arrived, and Terry weighed his next words while he twirled capellini pomodoro onto his fork. He was certain now that Gail Chestnut was right about Doyle Rogers. The man was obviously yearning to explore his feminine side, but afraid or ashamed to do so. Terry also felt sure that Madam Fabulous would have no trouble transforming Doyle into an attractive woman. All he needed to do was get him in the door. "The House of Fabulous made me the woman I am today," he said, staring at Doyle above his wine glass.

"Is it some kind of beauty salon?" Doyle asked with feigned ignorance. He had visited the House of Fabulous web site countless times, and a dog-eared copy of "Boys Who Should Have Been Girls" by Madam Fabulous was kept in a drawer in his nightstand.

Terry played along. "Sort of. Maybe it takes one to know one, but I can tell that you would make a spectacular woman." He drained his glass and drummed his manicured fingers on the tablecloth. "Wouldn't you like to try it, just once?"

"What makes you think I'd want to?"

"Because it's such a rush! Look at me, Doyle. It feels so good to dress up like this." Terry crossed his legs with a rustle of nylon, poking one of his high heels out from under the tablecloth. "Do you know what I like about it the most?"

"What?" Doyle whispered.

"Paying back Mother Nature for the trick she played on me. When I was a little kid, people used to tease me by saying, 'You should have been born a girl.' Maybe they were right. Now, when I get dressed up like this, nobody can tell that I'm really a guy."

After years of frustration and denial, the repressed feelings finally poured out of Doyle's tortured soul. "Do you really think I could pass for a woman?" he asked in a quaking voice.

"Take it from me. You'll be a Fabulous Girl."

* * *

They agreed to meet in Doyle's office the next morning to plot their strategy. After he got back to his apartment, Terry found Madam Fabulous's lavender card in his black purse and glanced at his slim wristwatch. It was after ten, but he took a chance and called the number on the card. He waited while it was routed to another extension. "House of Fabulous," the familiar voice answered.

"Madam, it's Terry. I'm sorry to call you so late."

"Nonsense, dear! I'm dying to hear about your dinner date. Tell me everything!"

"Oh, it was wonderful. Madam Fabulous, I have another emergency for you."

"What is it?"

"Can you perform another miracle tomorrow morning? Not for me, for somebody else."

"Bless your heart. Let me consult my palm pilot." A pause. "Tomorrow morning is booked solid, but the afternoon is wide open. Tell me about the project."

"He's a natural. About my height and weight, a lot better-looking, and a trained actor to boot."

"Oh my. You are becoming my favorite customer, Terry. Tell your friend to come at one o'clock, when the Mistresses get back from lunch. What's his name?"

"Doyle. I'll be with him. I need you to give me some of those curves that can stop traffic."

"We'll be waiting for you."

Terry hung up and started to get ready for bed. After hanging up his dress and peeling off his lingerie and stockings, he removed his makeup with cold cream and freed himself from the hated gaff. Dressed in his blue satin nightgown and panties, he crawled under the covers and was about to switch off the light on his nightstand when the telephone rang. It was Gail Chestnut.

"How was your big date?" she giggled.

"I do believe you're jealous," Terry bantered back in a girlish voice.

"You bet I am! Did you give him a goodnight kiss?"

"No! It was strictly business, Gail."

"Hmmm...sounds like Mr. Rogers' secretary was right about him. No straight guy could have resisted a girl as hot as you." Her voice was incredibly sultry, and Terry felt himself stirring. He looked under the covers to see a tent forming in his nightgown as his penis strained against his satin panties.

"Do you really think I'm hot?" he asked.

"I'm getting hot right now just thinking about you."

"That makes two of us."

"What did you wear tonight?"

"Just a dress."

"What's it like?"

Terry felt himself starting to lose control. He tugged the waistband of his panties down and freed himself as he cradled the phone on his shoulder. "It's white with little blue polka dots. It has sort of a gathered waist and a princess collar."

"Sounds cute. Do you have it on now?"

"No."

"What are you wearing?"

"A nightgown and panties."

"Yum! Pull your panties down."

"I already did."

"Naughty girl! Are you touching yourself?"

"Not yet," Terry moaned as his penis twitched in anticipation.

"Listen carefully. I want you to take the hem of your nightie and wrap it around yourself. Is it nice and silky?"

"Yes. Oh God."

"Make pretend it's me sliding up and down...up and down...up and down...oh God...oh God!"

At the sound of Gail coming, Terry gave way to a shattering orgasm, prolonged by her panting sighs on the other end of the line. When the waves of ecstasy finally subsided, he fell back in exhaustion, the phone still cradled on his shoulder.

"Well, that was a first," Gail sighed.

"Your first phone sex?"

"Our first simultaneous orgasms. Imagine what we can do when we're in the same bed."

Terry fell asleep to delicious dreams.

* * *

The next morning, Terry was up at five again to begin his preparations for another day as a woman. Shaving his legs, styling his hair and putting on his makeup was almost becoming a routine. Even though he hadn't jogged in two days, the increased metabolism brought on by the anxiety of masquerading as a woman, combined with his new diet, had taken five pounds off his already slim physique. His waist looked almost tiny between his false breasts and pantied ass, and when he tugged on a pair of control top pantyhose, it shrank even more.

Terry dressed himself in his one remaining outfit, the blue suit. Accessorized with a colorful red and white scarf, sheer navy stockings, and the blue heels and purse, he looked every inch the female lawyer. Whereas Terrence Poindexter had been a hopeless wimp, Terry Poindexter had looks, style, and a special confidence that came from knowing he had a secret identity.

He rode the Muni to the financial district and stopped at a corner bakery for a cup of coffee and a muffin before walking the rest of the way to Tyrex Industries. The receptionist was on duty when he got off the elevator, and she greeting him with an amused smile. "Good morning, Ms. Poindexter. You're looking lovely today."

"Why thank you, Jean. I like your dress," Terry said as he walked through the door. He felt her eyes boring into his back as he strolled down the corridor to Gail's desk. "Morning, Gail," he said. "Sleep well last night?"

She followed him into his office and closed the door behind them. They locked in a tight embrace, sharing a passionate kiss that neither wanted to end. When they finally broke off the clinch, their makeup and hair were a mess. Gail went to work on Terry, and he did the best he could with her, trying to ignore the protest from his panties while he wiped his lipstick off her beautiful face. "Down boy," he said to himself.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Gail said. "Your place or mine tonight?"

He looked longingly at her beautiful body. "Afraid I'm going out tonight."

"Another date with Doyle?" she asked playfully.

"Well yes, but not in the way you think." He could see the hurt in her eyes, and he stopped her before she could leave. "Doyle and I are going to take a walk on the wild side." She listened as he explained.

* * *

At noon, Terry and Doyle left the office separately, a few minutes apart. Terry was waiting for him on the corner of Montgomery and Sacramento streets when Doyle pulled up to the curb in his Porsche. Doyle reached over to open the passenger door, and Terry sat down as gracefully as he could in his tight skirt.

Earlier that morning, Terry had come to Doyle's office to find him in a state of near panic. "Forget what I told you last night," he'd said. "I can't go through with this."

"Yes you can, and you will. The arrangements have already been made. You have an appointment with Madam Fabulous at one o'clock, and she does not tolerate tardiness." Secretly thrilled by Terry's domineering tone, Doyle had meekly agreed. The rest of the morning was spent meeting with the company's investment bankers and preparing for the emergency meeting of the board of directors, which was scheduled for nine o'clock the following day. Doyle's assistant was surprised when he told her to clear his schedule for the afternoon, but with all the craziness going on in the office, she took it in her stride.

Now, as he wove his Porsche through the lunch hour traffic, Doyle was obviously a nervous wreck. "What are they going to do to me first?" he asked.

"Well, let's see," Terry said. "Did you shave last night?"

"Yes." Before they left the restaurant, Terry had instructed Doyle to remove all of his body hair before he went to bed, a command which he had been only too happy to obey.

"Then you will probably go right into makeup. After you are properly gaffed, of course."

"Does that hurt?"

"Just one of the many joys of being a woman."

Doyle's mind was racing as they climbed up California Street towards Nob Hill. "How long do you think it will take?"

"Three or four hours, depending on how long it takes to fit you with a wig and fingernails. That should give us plenty of time to pick out our outfits for tonight."

"We must be out of our minds."

"No turning back now, Doyle. If I could do it, you can do it." They rode in silence the rest of the way. After Doyle found a parking space on Castro Street, Terry led them to the gingerbread Victorian townhouse with the lavender front door. He strode confidently up the steps, Doyle following a few steps behind him, and pressed the buzzer. The door opened immediately.

"Welcome back to the House of Fabulous. Look at you, Terry! Aren't you stunning? And this must be Doyle," Madam Fabulous gushed as she showed them into the foyer. She was dressed in a simple gray shift with her trademark strand of pearls, classic coif and immaculate makeup. "Terry was right," she said to Doyle. "You are going to be a delight to work with." She sat down on a lavender settee and patted the cushions on either side of her. "Sit down, girls." Terry sat down to one side of her, while Doyle hesitated. "Do as you're told," Madam Fabulous repeated with irritation, and Doyle immediately complied.

Sissy, the Mistress of Fashion, entered the foyer. Terry got up and gave her a hug. After they exchanged air kisses, they stood next to each other while Madam Fabulous turned her attention to Doyle. "Because you were referred by Terry, I will dispense with the usual preliminaries. Repeat after me: 'I dedicate myself to the discovery of my inner woman, and I pledge my allegiance to Madam Fabulous and her Mistresses in my quest to become a Fabulous Girl.'" Doyle hung his head and repeated the pledge in a halting voice. "Take him away to be gaffed," Madam Fabulous said to Sissy, who took Doyle by the hand and led him into an adjoining room.

When they were alone, Madam Fabulous held Terry's hands and smiled with genuine pleasure. "I can't tell you how proud I am of you. You look adorable. How does it feel?"

"It feels...nice," Terry said. "It's a lot of work, but it's all worth it when I see the look in people's eyes. I never thought of myself as attractive before."

"This is just the beginning, Terry. You are truly a Fabulous Girl."

"Madam, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, dear."

"Who were you before you became Madam Fabulous?"

"It's rather a long story," Madam Fabulous replied. "Have you had lunch?"

"No."

"Neither have I. Your friend is in good hands. Let's have a ladies' lunch and share some of our secrets."

* * *

Darwin DeVour got up from the dining room table and strolled over to the windows in the elegantly furnished parlor. The view of San Francisco Bay from the Presidential Suite at the Mark Hopkins was spectacular, and DeVour took a few moments to savor the moment. His last takeover target had been a ball bearing manufacturer based in Youngstown, and although the acquisition had been extremely lucrative, he had left a little on the table to expedite his escape from Ohio. There would be no such incentive tomorrow.

Lance Raptor, still pouring over the computer printouts and financial statements strewn over the dining room table, took a telephone call. It was from a house phone in the lobby. "Sure, bring it up," he said before he joined DeVour by the windows. "That was a secretary from Tyrex. She's got a letter from the board concerning tomorrow's meeting."

"That's what I like about this town," DeVour said. "When we were in Youngstown, they sent goons to our hotel to break our legs. Here, we get a letter from a secretary. Of course, in San Francisco, she probably used to be a man." There was a knock on the door, and Raptor opened it to admit Gail Chestnut. On Terry's instructions, she had stopped by her apartment to change into a tight sweater, short leather skirt, fishnet stockings and calf-high boots.

Raptor was practically drooling as she opened her shoulder bag and pulled out an envelope. "This is a letter with instructions about when and where the board meeting will be tomorrow," she said. "I'm supposed to give it to Mr. DeVour. Is that you?"

"No, that's me, angel," DeVour said. "What's your name?"

"Gail. Gail Chestnut. Nice to meet you," she said as she pressed the envelope into his hands. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you guys tomorrow."

"Why not tonight?" DeVour said. "I'm going to own your company in a few days, and I like to get to know my new employees." The line was so outrageous that Gail had to stop herself from laughing out loud. Even Raptor seemed to be embarrassed by DeVour's crude approach.

"Tell you what," Gail said as she walked towards the door. "Come to the Top of the Mark at six o'clock." Before either of them could respond, she was out the door and down the hall. She waited until she was on the elevator before she took out her cell phone and punched in Terry's cell phone number.

He answered in his girl's voice. "Hello?"

"Message delivered."

"Great! I owe you big time."

"You may take that back after you see them."

"What do they look like?"

"DeVour is about a hundred pounds overweight, with a bad comb-over. The other guy is skinny, with beady eyes and a cheap rug. Take your pick."

"Take the rest of the day off. You've earned it," Terry said. He switched off his phone and put it back in his purse. "Sorry," he said to Madam Fabulous, who was seated across the table at a trendy restaurant featuring a fusion of Mexican and Asian cuisine.

"Not at all," she said as she studied the menu. "I recommend the Thai chicken enchiladas with lotus sauce."

"Why not? At least our farts will be fragrant," Terry said, and they laughed like two schoolgirls. After they ordered, he asked her the question he had posed earlier. "Who were you before you became Madam Fabulous?"

Madam Fabulous sat back in her chair with a faraway look in her eyes. "Have you ever heard of Finnochio's?" she asked.

"You mean the Disney puppet cartoon?"

"No," she smiled sadly. "For over sixty years, Finnochio's was the hottest thing in North Beach, with the possible exception of Carol Doda's 44D breasts at the Condor Club."

"Carol Doda?"

"You've never heard of her either?" Madam Fabulous shook her head. "It's so sad. In its heyday, Finnochio's was the toughest ticket in San Francisco. People used to line up around the block for over an hour to see the next show. Straight people, tourists, businessmen and their wives, even Hollywood celebrities."

"What kind of show was it?"

"The world's premier cabaret for female impersonators. Six days a week, there were four shows a night with a live orchestra, while tuxedoed waiters served drinks to the packed tables. Finnochio's was a complete variety show, with lavish production numbers, a chorus line, singers, dancers, strippers, comediennes, jugglers, even a puppeteer. All of them played by men."

Terry was perplexed. He was pretty sure that Madam Fabulous was really a woman, but why was she so wrapped up in the history of a drag show? And what did it have to do with the House of Fabulous?

As if reading his mind, Madam Fabulous said, "No, I wasn't an act in the show. The nerve of you to even think that! For over twenty years, my father was the emcee at Finnochio's. Every afternoon, he used to leave for work dressed as a man -- that was one of the house rules -- and return home the same way, although I was always in bed by then."

"Wasn't that kind of...weird?"

"Compared to what?" Madam Fabulous chuckled. "Half of my friends came from broken homes, and there were plenty of strange things happening in San Francisco in those days. Haight Ashbury, the Summer of Love, People's Park over in Berkeley...so my father put on a dress at work.

"And he was beautiful! I knew what he did, but until my sixteenth birthday I never saw him perform. I'll never forget that experience! In his sequined gown and platinum blonde wig, he was absolutely devastating. 'The First Lady of San Francisco,' Herb Caen used to call him. He even got some cameo parts in movies and hit TV shows."

"Your mother must have been very understanding."

"If anything, she was jealous that he looked better in a dress than she did. But she knew how lucky she was to have a gorgeous husband who didn't play around, loved his family, and was a good provider. Mr. and Mrs. Finnochio paid top dollar, including medical benefits and Christmas bonuses, and we had a very comfortable life."

"What happened to Finnochio's?"

"It went downhill after my father retired, and closed up for good eventually."

"And your father?"

"He died of Alzheimer's a few years later. My mother had already passed away, and they left me with a tidy inheritance. Bay Area real estate wasn't so expensive when my father was performing, and he invested every spare cent in Marin County."

"So you decided to invest it in the House of Fabulous?"

"Some of it. I got the idea at my father's funeral. Hundreds of people came up to me and told me how much they enjoyed seeing him perform, and dozens of old Finnochio employees were there too. You met three of them the other day."

Terry had a blank expression on his face until he realized what she meant. "The Mistresses?"

"Of course. The Mistress of Fashion was an ingenue in the chorus line, and the Mistress of Poise used to juggle coconuts while riding a unicycle in hot pants. The Mistress of Style was a makeup wizard, one of the few female employees at Finnochio's."

Their entrees arrived, and for the next two hours Madam Fabulous regaled Terry with tales of Finnochio's and the House of Fabulous. Eventually she looked at her watch and said, "We'd better get back and see how your friend is doing." They emerged from the restaurant into a glorious afternoon, sunny and crisp, and they took their time strolling back to the House of Fabulous. It was almost four o'clock by the time they returned.

When they entered the foyer, they came face to face with the most spectacular confection of face and form that Terry had ever laid eyes on. Ash blonde hair topped a visage of exquisite beauty, complemented by a body that could raise the dead. Large firm breasts and a pair of legs that didn't stop were wrapped in a skin-tight dress that showed considerably more than it concealed. Even Madam Fabulous was speechless. Feeling a bit frumpy in his conservative suit, Terry could only stand and stare at the person who used to be Doyle Rogers.

"How do I look?" the acting CEO of Tyrex Industries asked in a voice as soft and sweet as spun sugar.

Madam Fabulous was the first to speak. "Beyond fabulous!" she exclaimed. "Have you selected a name?"

"Well, I kind of like Ginger," he said with a shy smile.

"Ginger Rogers! How perfectly precious!"

Terry finally blurted out, "I want a body like that."

"Of course you do, dear!" Madam Fabulous said. "How thoughtless of me. We'll also want to do a few things to your hair and makeup, and find you something special to wear for tonight. You girls are going to take San Francisco by storm."

* * *

Ginger could barely contain himself as they drove back up Nob Hill. "I'm strictly a female female," he was singing as his dress rode up his thighs each time he shifted his Porsche through the gears. "I enjoy being a girl!"

Terry was relieved that he had been right about Ginger, and the finished product was beyond his wildest expectations. By comparison, he felt like a plain Jane, even after the House of Fabulous bent him into shape and poured him into a tight dress. Of immediate concern was how to get Ginger back down to earth for the business at hand.

The ringing of Ginger's car phone broke the spell. "Answer it like a man," Terry said sharply.

"Hello," Ginger said in Doyle's old voice.

At first the rasping on the speakerphone was hard to understand, but both of them quickly recognized the caller as Charles Bigelow. "Doyle, what's happening with the tender offer?"

"The board has agreed to meet with Great White tomorrow morning."

"That's bullshit! How can they do that?" Bigelow sounded like he was about to have another seizure.

"On advice of our counsel, the board has to go through the motions to maintain appearances."

"I want to see you immediately."

"But sir, aren't you still in Saint Francis?"

"I'm out of intensive care, and the doctors said I can have visitors. You're in your car, how soon can you get here?"

Ginger pushed the mute button. "We're fucked," he said.

"You don't have time to change, pay a visit to Bigelow in the hospital, and get gussied up again for what we have to do tonight, " Terry said. "You're just going to have to go as you are."

"Are you crazy?"

"Either that or blow him off. Go ahead. Show some balls."

Ginger pushed the mute button and said, "I really don't think it's a good idea for you to be discussing business in your condition."

"God damn it, I want you here now!" Bigelow wheezed. "Move it!"

The line went dead. "What do I do now?" Ginger asked morosely.

"You go as you are. Want some company?"

* * *

Charles Bigelow was propped up on two pillows, trying to read Barron's without getting it tangled up in the wires which attached him to an electrocardiogram. He looked up when he heard a commotion in the hall outside his room, just in time to see Ginger and Terry come in with a nurse right behind them. "I told you, close friends and family only," she was saying, obviously certain that neither of them could possibly fit into that category.

"Who the hell are you?" Bigelow asked.

"Don't you recognize us?" Ginger said in Doyle's old voice. Bigelow squinted over his newspaper, then let it fall to his lap as the shocked nurse looked on.

"Rogers?"

"Doesn't he look lovely?" Terry said.

"Poindexter? I thought I fired your ass!"

"Doyle's first official act as acting CEO was to take me back. Now I'm heading up our legal strategy in the takeover battle!"

Bigelow clutched at his chest and the electrocardiogram began to beep alarmingly. The nurse rushed to his side just as Bigelow went into cardiac arrest.

"Oh dear, it looks like he's having a relapse," Terry said.

The nurse pressed the intercom button beside Bigelow's bed and shouted "Code Red! Stat!" She was administering CPR when a doctor and an intern barged into the room. The doctor took one look at Ginger and Terry and told them to leave immediately.

The nurse was going to work with the defibrillator as they made their way out the door. "Who let those floozies in here?" they heard the doctor ask her.

"Well, it looks like we're dressed right for tonight," Terry said. "Wouldn't it be nice if Darwin DeVour has a heart condition?"

* * *

In fact, Darwin DeVour's heart was reasonably healthy, and he expected to give it a good workout that evening. He was seated with Lance Raptor at a table near the bar at the Top of the Mark, strategically positioned to give him a view of the door. It was a few minutes past six, and Raptor glanced nervously at his watch. "She's not coming," he said. "This place is dead. Let's head over to North Beach."

"Relax," DeVour was saying when two women walked into the room. "Hot damn! What a piece of ass."

Raptor looked up and stared as Ginger and Terry walked over to the bar. "Yowza. The brunette's not bad either. Look at those legs," he said as Terry slid onto a barstool and tugged at his short dress. They watched as the girls ordered kir royales.

"She's yours. I want the blonde," DeVour said. He got up from the table and made a beeline for Ginger. "Hello angel," he said. "Did you hurt yourself?"

Ginger looked up from his drink. "Hurt myself?"

"You know, when you fell out of heaven."

The years of acting experience paid off. "If I'm an angel, you must be the devil," Ginger said.

"So they say in the newspapers."

"You must be somebody important!"

Meanwhile, Terry was parrying lame pickup lines from Lance Raptor and trying not to stare at his bad toupee. "I love that accent of yours," he was saying. "Where are you staying in San Francisco?"

"We're in the Presidential Suite at this hotel," Raptor replied.

"The Presidential Suite! Ginger, they're staying in the Presidential Suite! I'd love to see that!" Terry gushed.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" DeVour asked. "Come on, girls." Raptor paid for their drinks, and they followed the men into the lobby and onto a waiting elevator. A few seconds letter, it stopped at the floor below and DeVour led the way to pair of double doors at the end of the short hallway.

"It really says 'The Presidential Suite,' Ginger said as he admired the brass plaque on the door. Once they were inside, the girls raced around the parlor, oohing and aahing over the size of the room, the luxurious furniture, and the spectacular view. "Now I feel like an angel," Ginger said. "This must be what it's like in heaven."

Terry kicked off his heels and plopped down onto a cream leather sofa, crossing his legs provocatively. "What do they drink in heaven?" he asked.

"Anything you want, little lady," DeVour replied. "Anything you want." Raptor went to the stocked bar and poured himself a Jack Daniels. "Bring me a Dewar's and some champagne for the girls," DeVour told him. "Unless you'd prefer something else," he said to Ginger, who was perched on the arm of the sofa next to Terry.

"Champagne sounds great," Ginger said. Raptor found a bottle in the refrigerator under the bar, and while he was opening it, Terry wandered into the dining room, where he spied a stack of binders on the dining room table. They were obviously intended for the Tyrex board meeting the next day. A pile of manila folders and a notebook computer occupied another corner of the table.

Terry returned to the parlor and sat down in a wing chair, allowing DeVour to sit next to Ginger on the sofa. He draped a fat arm around Ginger's back and pulled him down next to him while Raptor was filling his glass with champagne. Ginger cried out as he spilled champagne on his dress, and DeVour and Raptor made a show of mopping off Ginger's lap and legs with napkins. While everyone was preoccupied with Ginger's wet dress, Terry pulled a miniature digital camera out of his purse and shot a quick picture of Ginger and DeVour laughing while they embraced each other.

He had the camera back in his purse before Raptor came over to his chair. "I thought you might be lonely over here," Raptor said.

Terry got up and walked over to the coffee table in front of the couch. "Could I change my mind and have something stronger?" he asked.

"Sure. What'll it be?"

"Straight vodka," Terry said. When Raptor when back to the bar, Terry reached into his purse again and pulled out a case full of little white pills. Ginger pulled DeVour's face toward his, allowing Terry to drop one of the pills into DeVour's drink. After a swift glance to make sure that Raptor was still preoccupied at the bar, he dropped another pill into Raptor's glass. By the time Raptor was back with his vodka, Terry had seated himself in the wing chair again. He took a long pull on his vodka and settled back to watch the show.

It took several minutes before the Rohypnol worked its way through the men's systems. Because Raptor was skinnier, he started to go first. When it was obvious that he was feeling dizzy, Terry pulled him down on the wing chair and sat on his lap, pretending to come on to him in case DeVour happened to look their way. By the time Raptor was unconscious, DeVour knew that something was wrong, and he took a few labored steps towards the powder room before he keeled over and passed out on the plush carpet.

Terry and Ginger stepped over them and walked into the dining room, where they opened up two of the binders and began to pour over Great White's board presentation. While Terry scoured it for legal deficiencies, Ginger flipped through the financials behind the executive summary. "It's obvious that they intend some major divestitures," he said.

"Why do you say that?"

"They're going to have to sell off some major assets to reduce the debt they're taking on to finance their bid."

"Well, they don't identify anything that's going to be sold in the executive summary," Terry said.

"That must mean they don't want the board to know," Ginger said. He saw the files stacked up across the table and started looking through them. "Well, well," he said after a few minutes. "It's all here. Once Great White gets control of Tyrex Industries, they intend to sell off all the California assets and close the San Francisco headquarters."

"That's not going to sit very well with the board," Terry said. Most of them were third or fourth generation San Franciscans, and Tyrex Industries was deeply entrenched in civic affairs and local charities.

"I think the board has a right to know this, don't you? I'm off to the business center to make some copies," Ginger said.

Terry was busy with the notebook computer that lay open on the table. "Before you go, there's something else I want you to do first. Lift up your dress and pull down your panties."

* * *

Doyle Rogers entered the boardroom shortly before nine o'clock the following morning. Dressed in a gray flannel suit, the acting CEO of Tyrex Industries bore no resemblance to Ginger Rogers. His wig and fingernails were stashed in a bag in Terry's office, along with the dress and other feminine paraphernalia from the House of Fabulous. He was greeted with grim hellos by the members of the board, who were still reeling from the news of Charles Bigelow's latest setback and the impending hostile takeover by Great White, LLC.

"What's the latest on Charles," the Vice Chairman of the Board asked Rogers.

"He's back in intensive care after a second heart attack last night. Obviously he tried to come back too fast, so they've got him under heavy sedation. It looks like he's going to make it, but there's no way the doctors will let him meet with anyone regarding business, or let him get anywhere near a phone, for quite some time."

"Understandable. We certainly appreciate the way you've stepped up to the plate."

"Thank you. While we're waiting for the people from Great White, I would like to request some guidance from the board concerning a matter which is not on our agenda."

"Go ahead," the Vice Chairman said.

"One of our employees, an attorney named Terrence Poindexter, is threatening to sue the company for wrongful termination."

"Did you say an attorney?" one of the directors asked.

"That's right. Evidently Mr. Bigelow fired him for wearing women's clothing. Under a new California law, that was a clear-cut violation of his civil rights."

"We had a similar situation at my company," one of the outside directors said. "A female employee was fired because she was a lesbian. She took us to the cleaners."

"How could Bigelow do that to a lawyer, in this town no less?" the Vice Chairman asked. "If he gets in front of a jury, it could cost us millions."

"I think you should work out a settlement," another director chimed in. "Maybe if the company offers to contribute to an outreach program for gays, he'll settle for less."

"Settle it," the Vice Chairman pronounced. "Pay him whatever you have to. Just make it go away."

"Thank you, I'll take care of it right after the meeting," Doyle said.

"I wonder where the Great White people are?" the Vice Chairman said with a trace of annoyance. Just then Darwin DeVour walked into the board room, followed by two assistants carrying heavy bags full of presentation materials. The Chief Executive Officer of Great White, LLC looked absolutely dreadful.

After DeVour and Raptor failed to show up for a breakfast meeting two hours earlier, their underlings had eventually gained entry to the Presidential Suite. There they had found both men passed out on the carpet, DeVour looking like a beached whale, and Raptor with his hairpiece slanting off his head like the half-open top on a Mustang convertible. After many cups of coffee and two cold showers, the frantic assistants had finally gotten DeVour shaved and dressed. Raptor, still too drugged to function, had been abandoned in the suite. After hurriedly gathering up the board materials and notebook computer, DeVour and his entourage had piled into a stretch limousine for the mad dash to Tyrex headquarters.

Darwin DeVour's survival instincts didn't fail him. "Good morning," he said with surprising smoothness while his flunkies passed around the binders and set up the notebook computer for a power point presentation. Although he had a splitting headache in his left temple, he appeared calm and collected. "I am pleased to have this opportunity to discuss our proposal to maximize shareholder value for Tyrex Industries. Great White has a history of increasing the efficiency and performance of the companies we invest in, while remaining sensitive to their corporate cultures."

"Then why are you proposing to close our San Francisco office?" asked one of the directors, who had been flipping through her binder. She tore out a page and handed it to him. When he saw it, his face blanched, and his left temple began to throb while the other directors opened their binders. They found the following document inserted in the middle of their executive summaries:

MEMORANDUM

To: Darwin DeVour

From: Lance Raptor

Re: Tyrex Industries/Disposal Strategy

The following action is to take place immediately following the tender offer:

1. Close San Francisco office. Savings: $10,000,000
2. Eliminate all Bay Area charities and civic affairs. Savings: $5,000,000

The memorandum went on to list the California assets of Tyrex Industries which were destined for the chopping block. Doyle Rogers, who had inserted it into the binders the night before, watched the directors fume as they read it through.

Darwin DeVour did not get to the top of the business world by being slow on his feet. "I don't know how this got in here," he said. "This is nothing more than a list of proposed alternatives, prepared by one of our investment bankers. I was so outraged by it that I told him not to attend this meeting." Then, to one of his startled assistants, he said, "Please begin the slide presentation." The notebook computer had been rigged to a slide projector on one side of the long conference table, and the directors swiveled in their chairs to face the screen.

The first slide depicted a scene of domestic tranquility, featuring Darwin DeVour with an attractive woman, two small children, and a golden retriever. "Great White prides itself in supporting family values and traditional virtues," DeVour intoned while the directors studied the screen. "Next slide, please," he said.

When the slide went up, it was greeted with gasps from around the table. DeVour turned around to see a picture of himself and Ginger in the Presidential Suite. He appeared to be lifting the hem of her short dress while she sat next to him on a sofa. The pain in his temple intensified. "Next slide," he said in a strained voice to the bewildered assistant working the computer. More gasps from around the table as the girl who had just been seen embracing Darwin DeVour stood facing the board of directors, her dress and panties pulled away to reveal a well-hung penis and balls.

"Why are you showing us pictures of yourself with a transvestite?" one of the directors asked as they stared at the screen. The room started to spin, and the throb in DeVour's temple became a shooting star. While the stunned board of directors of Tyrex Industries looked on, his legs gave way and he tumbled onto the floor.

For the third consecutive day, Doyle Rogers witnessed the collapse of a business chieftain. "This one looks like a stroke," he said as he reached for the phone to call 911. "Maybe he'll get the room next to Mr. Bigelow."

* * *

Three months later, a very tan Terrence Poindexter sang "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems" as he pulled his jeep into the gravel driveway of his beachside villa in Maui. Gail Chestnut, equally tanned and wearing only a Forty-Niners jersey that barely covered her ass, was waiting for him on their upstairs balcony overlooking the blue Pacific. A carafe of guava nectar and a steaming pot of Kona coffee sat next to a plate of mangos on a glass-topped table.

He sat down across from her and plopped a newspaper on the table. "Where were you, baby?" Gail asked with a yawn.

" I woke up early, and I've been feeling a little stir-crazy, so I drove into Lahaina to pick up a two-day-old Chronicle. The clerk at the store still can't figure out whether I'm a guy or a girl," he added with a laugh.

She unfastened the rubber band in his hair, which was bleached almost blonde from the sun, and watched as it fell down around his shoulders. "It's only important that I know. Are you homesick?" she asked as she reached for the entertainment section.

"God no, I was just wondering whatever happened to Tyrex." He flipped through the business section and ran his eye over the share prices while Gail perused the headlines. "Great White stock is in the toilet," Terrence said as he poured them each a cup of coffee, "but Tyrex is up five bucks. I wonder if Doyle's still at the helm."

"I seriously doubt it," Gail said. Before he could ask her why, she handed him the article she'd just finished:

NORTH BEACH LANDMARK REOPENS

San Francisco -- Lines snaked down Broadway once again as Finnochio's, where beautiful women are not what they seem, reopened to delirious audiences at its old location in North Beach. Backed by the House of Fabulous with a grant from Tyrex Industries, the venerable cabaret featured some old favorites, including a juggling unicyclist and original members of the chorus line, but the night belonged to a blonde bombshell named Ginger Rogers. In her show-stopping debut, she brought down the house with a spectacular rendition of "I Enjoy Being a Girl".

---

Read more [House of Fabulous]
By the author of Skylord, coming soon from PublishAmerica

The Prom

© 2015 by Nom de Plume

Twenty years! It’s hard to believe that much time has gone by since I limped out of Grover Cleveland High, at the bottom of my class, prospects zero. My sole achievement was the dubious designation as Class Clown, in recognition of outrageous pranks which got me suspended twice and almost expelled. The last, which nearly ruined the senior prom for everyone, featured me disguised as a girl in a long halter gown. More on that later.

College was out of the question, and my long-suffering parents made it clear that I’d have to start paying room and board if I could hang onto a minimum wage job. By then I’d had my fill of Dullsville, USA. So I loaded a backpack and headed west, hitchhiking over the Rockies and all the way to Oregon. Where I fell in with a bunch of guys who were trying to break into the sneaker business. I started out sweeping the floors, living in a converted carport and putting every penny I could spare into company stock.

Which took off like a rocket, thanks to a zany marketing campaign which I helped to inspire. Before long I was running the marketing department, working with people who were as off-the-wall as I was. Remember Bo Jackson and Bo Diddley? My baby. Stock options, promotions, and more stock options followed, and by the time I was 30 I was a millionaire, many times over, with a cool condo in Portland, a ski chalet in Bend, and a beach house on the Oregon coast.

As for my love life, let’s just say that Portlandia really is the epicenter of weirdness. Amongst all the Johnny Appleseeds and Rachel Carsons, there were gorgeous girls, beautiful boys, and everything in between. With a full head of long blonde hair, and a body lithe and lean from aerobics and yoga, I found my niche….

Surfing the Internet one night, I stumbled upon a website for Grover Cleveland High, and a link to a blog about an upcoming reunion for my class. I hadn’t thought about those losers in twenty years, and I doubted if any of them had an inkling of my success. I was about to move onto more fertile ground when I spied this post:

Remember Jay Fawcett? Our class clown, who almost gave Mrs. Dumphrey a heart attack at the senior prom? He sure looked hot in that dress! Wonder if he’s had a sex change operation? Come to the reunion and find out!

Those bastards! Using my most memorable prank to hype their stupid reunion! They made it sound like I was coming, as a woman! The post was written by Audrey Forrest, a cheerleader who never gave me the time of day. Miss Popularity trashing the Class Clown! I was reaching for the phone to call my lawyer when a better idea came to me.

* * *
Before I go any further, I’d better explain something: when I was growing up in Dullsville, I used to dress up in my sister’s clothes. All the time, whenever I could. She was several years older, and after she left for college, her closet became my amusement park. I don’t think she ever knew, and I’m sure my parents never had a clue. While they were both off at work, I would try on my sister’s bras and panties, skirts and dresses, shoes and stockings, makeup and jewelry. I made a pretty girl, which was an incredible rush. But it remained a deep dark secret, until the end of my senior year….

“Do you have a date for the prom?” my best friend, Andy Cooper, asked me one spring day at the lunch table.

“Nope. After I put that cherry bomb down a boy’s room toilet, my parents took away my driver’s license. No wheels, no dates.”

“Bummer.”

“How about you?”

“Looks like I’ll be sitting it out too. Julie dumped me last week, and it’s too late to line up a girl I’d want to be seen with.”

“Ouch.”

“So I guess we can play pool and watch TV.”

“Sure, I’ll come over.”

“By the way, did you hear what Mrs. Dumphrey said about us?”

Mrs. Dumphrey was our guidance counsellor, who had done nothing but discourage me for four years. “No, what?” I asked.

“She told one of the girls that we’re the worst students she ever worked with, and she’d be shocked if any of the girls would want to be seen with us at the prom.”

“Shocked, huh?” I was steaming. Mrs. Dumprey was probably the biggest reason why my future looked so dim. And now she was kicking me and Andy when we were down! Slowly, a newfound courage came to me. “Andy,” I said at length, “I want you to go ahead and rent a tux for the prom.”

“What?”

“I have a date for you.”

“A date? Who?”

“Me.”
* * *

It took a lot of persuading, but eventually Andy went along. He was going into the Marines as soon as we got out of high school, and he didn’t really care what the kids thought about him. Still, it wasn’t till I showed him a few Polaroids of me as a girl that he decided what the hell, let’s go out with a bang.

The day of the prom, I cut my last class and got home early. I spent a long time in my sister’s closet, finally selecting a long gown with a halter top that she had worn as a bridesmaid to a friend’s wedding. She still had the matching clutch and heels, and I found a wig that she used to wear too. Then to her dresser drawers for lingerie, nylons and bling. I scooped up some of her makeup and put everything in a duffle bag, along with two nerf balls. Then I drew a hot bath and carefully shaved my arms, legs and chest. I had never done this before, and I was amazed by how soft and feminine my body looked after I dried myself off. My parents were both still at work when I put on sweats and sneakers, slung the duffle bag over my shoulder, and walked the few blocks to Andy’s house.

His mother opened the door. From the wicked smile on her face, I could tell that she was in on the secret. “Hello princess,” she giggled. “Can I help you with your nails and makeup?” Andy’s mom was one of the coolest ladies I’ve ever met, and my pulse was almost down to normal by the time Andy joined us. He looked gorgeous in his white tuxedo, and I felt very silly thinking of myself as his date. What in the world was I getting myself into?

By then, it was too late to turn back. “Sure, Mrs. Cooper, that would be great. Can I have a little privacy first before we get started?” Without a word, she led me into the master bedroom and gently closed the door behind me.

I was shivering with anticipation as I took off my sweats and laid out the contents of my duffle bag on the queen size bed. Although I’d put on my sister’s clothes countless times, I’d never seen the light of day in them, and now my first public appearance would be at a formal dinner dance! My panties slid easily up my hairless legs, and for the first time I experienced the delight of nylon against smooth skin. Heaven! I savored the sensation for a few moments, sitting down on a corner of the bed and crossing my sleek legs, before I tried on the long half-slip I’d selected to wear under my dress. It felt so sexy against my stockings! Before things got out of hand, I went into the master bathroom to work on my makeup. A half-boy half-girl looked back at me in the mirror above the vanity, all silk and lace below the waist. I went to work on my boyish face: a bit of foundation, some eye liner and lip gloss were the limits of my expertise. Then the wig, a cute layered shag that instantly transformed me into a pretty girl.

My heart was racing as I hurried back into the bedroom to put on my dress. I had to step into it, sliding the straps up over my shoulders, and it took me a few tries before I was able to tie them behind my neck in a bow. The final challenge: I picked up the two small nerf balls I’d brought and tucked them into my dress. Success! They nestled snugly into the built-in bra, and gave me the illusion of a figure. I was almost in a trance as I stepped into my pumps, and at first I didn’t hear the soft tapping on the bedroom door. “Jay, can I come in?”

It was Andy’s mom. “Okay,” I whispered, and watched as she poked her head into the room. I’ll never forget the look on her startled face: surprise, concern and amusement all registered as she took me in. I busied myself with a necklace while she closed the door behind her and took me in.

“Oh my,” she finally said. “If I didn’t know you were a boy, I’d have never believed it. How long have you been doing this?”

“Please don’t tell anyone. My mom and dad would disown me.”

“All right, nuff said. I sent Andy off to get you a corsage, so we have a little time. Not that you need any help….”

“Do I really look like a girl?”

“Are you kidding? Sweetheart, you’re adorable. Here, why don’t you let me find you something a bit nicer to wear with that dress.” She rummage through the jewelry chest on her dresser and found a simple diamond pendant. “This will be perfect,” she said, and she also found some pretty clip-on earrings that sparkled and dangled. “I haven’t worn these in years,” she went on. “And don’t worry, these aren’t real diamonds – cubic zirconium,” she explained as she fastened the pendant behind me and clipped on the earrings. “Now, let’s do something about your makeup. It’s cute, perfect for a girl your age, but this is a big night. Mind if I jazz it up a bit?”
I nodded yes, and followed her into the bathroom, where she went to work with some eye shadow, mascara and blush. Then she wiped off my lip gloss and carefully applied a darker shade of lipstick. “Here, you’ll want to have this in your purse,” she said, handing me her lipstick. “Oh oh, your nails! We just have time.” I stood there while she filed them down and applied a coat of quick dry polish that matched my lipstick. While we waited for them to dry, she fussed with my wig a bit, and finished me off with a few spritzes of what smelled like very expensive cologne.

“Okay Cinderella, time to go to the ball,” she said. I followed her back into the bedroom, and watched as she dropped her lipstick into my clutch. “A woman my age would need an arsenal to get through an evening like this, but a sweet young thing like you doesn’t need any more help from me. I’m a little worried about my son,” she added.

I was trying to tell her she had nothing to worry about when we heard Andy come in the front door. “We’re in here,” his mother said, and we both watched as Andy came into the room. If his mother was surprised, Andy was shocked, and he stood there with an open mouth for what seemed like forever.

“Holy shit,” he finally said. “Jay, is that really you?”

“I think you need to think up a better name for her tonight, don’t you? Nobody at the prom is ever going to recognize her. How about Jayne?” she suggested.

* * *
Sitting in the passenger seat of Andy’s car, I admired my wrist corsage while Andy rambled on nonstop about the mess I’d gotten him into. “I can’t believe you look so like a girl. My mom must have helped you big time, right? We’re gonna leave right after dinner. No way I’m gonna dance with you, okay? Jay?”

“It’s Jayne,” I said softly, practicing my female voice.

“Right, Jayne, I’ll remember that. And so will you. If we’re lucky, nobody will know you were there.”

“So who am I? I mean, who’s Jayne?”

“What?”

“Come on, Andy, you have to have a cover story for me. Who’s that hot chick you’re with? Where did you meet her?”

“This was your idea, genius. You come up with something.”

“Hmmm…I was a finalist in Miss Teen USA, you met me at a bar in Vegas, and when you told me you were going into the Marines I agreed to go to your senior prom with you. How’s that?”

“Fucking ridiculous,” he steamed.

“Oh dear. Well, how’s this then: we met at a church retreat, your parents invited me to stay with them while my mom and dad are away, and when your girlfriend dumped you I took pity on you and agreed to be your date for the prom?”

“Better. Still fucking ridiculous, but better,” he relented.

“Can I have one of those pictures?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pictures that your mother took of us before we left.”

“No way. I’m gonna destroy that camera.” We both laughed nervously, and as we continued to talk, I began to feel a little more comfortable in my female persona. Until Andy turned off the road to the country club where the prom was being held, into a suburban neighborhood with big, rich people’s houses.

“Uh, Andy, where are we going?”

“Prom pre-party at Dave’s. Everyone will be there.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me?”
“I never said that. Anyway, you’re looking and sounding pretty good, and I need a drink.” Before I could object, we were pulling into a long driveway crowded with other kids’ cars. Andy got out, and he was halfway to the front door before he turned around and looked back to see me still sitting in the front seat. He came back, and I lowered my window and said, “You go in, I’ll wait here.”

“Come on, Jayne. You could use one too.”

He was right. “Okay, but on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to treat me like a lady. Starting now, by opening my door, mister.” Which he did, with a flourish, and he watched in amusement as I struggled to my feet in my long dress and tried to keep up with him in my heels. “Slow down!” I scolded him, and he took my hand and walked beside me to Dave’s house.

The party was in full swing, and we headed straight for the bar downstairs. “Whoa, did you see Andy’s date?” I heard one of the guys say as we went. “Who’s she?” one of the girls asked. We kept moving, and I had to hike up my dress on the narrow staircase, but as soon as we were in the dimly lit basement, we were both able to relax a bit. Andy got himself a beer and a vodka tonic for me, and I threw it down so fast he got me another, and then another, as I kept to the shadows. I caught several glances from guys and girls who obviously didn’t recognize me, and I played the stuck up girl who couldn’t be bothered with them. Andy nursed his beer as he mingled with some of our friends, and after my third drink, I started to loosen up.

“Are you here with Andy?” a girl asked me. It was Audrey Forrest, who had never spoken to me in her life. She was pretty bombed too.

“Um hmm.”

“How did you guys hook up?”

“Long story,” I smiled. My female voice seemed to be working, as long as I kept it short and sweet.”

“So where are you from?”

“Columbus.”

“Big city girl. Where do you go to school.”

“Ohio State.”

“Wow. Are you in a sorority?”

“Tri Delta.” The rich, pretty girls. Audrey Forrest had just met her match. She was trying to think of something cool to say when Andy came up to us. “Hi Audrey. Would you like another drink, Jayne?”

“Yes, thanks.” I followed him to the bar, leaving Audrey to wonder about the mystery woman. “I just upgraded us,” I whispered in his ear.

“You what?”

“You’re now dating a college girl. As in me, Miss Ohio State. Oh, and I’m a member of Delta Delta Delta.”

He shook his head as he handed me my fourth vodka and tonic. “This is your last one. If I don’t cut you off, you’ll be Miss Fucking America next.”

* * *

I was feeling no pain by the time we got to the prom. Andy opened my door this time, and I made him wait while I freshened my lipstick in the mirror on my visor. By the time we got to the country club, the receiving line was long gone, and most of the kids were sitting down to dinner. Andy found our table and escorted me to my chair, which he pulled back while I sat down demurely. A quick glance around the table found friendly, curious faces. Who’s the new girl? Andy introduced me as his friend Jayne, and I said a few words to the guy on my left before he turned his attention to his date, and I turned my attention to Andy. “This is fun,” I said as I smoothed my linen napkin over my dress.

“You’re shitfaced,” he said in a low voice.

“Indeed, sir. You were a very good boy.”

“I’m driving, remember?”

“You’re an excellent driver,” I slurred as our soup was presented. I took a dainty sip and glanced around the room. There she was, at the head table: our esteemed guidance counselor, Mrs. Dumphrey, sitting in between the principal and the superintendent of schools. Just then, the band began to play, and all of the other kids at our table got up to dance. I tugged on Andy’s sleeve, but he gave me withering look, and we sat there morosely sipping our soup while the dance floor filled. “You’re no fun,” I pouted when we were alone.

“We have a deal, remember? I should never have let you have so much to drink.”

“Am I embarrassing you?”

“You’re fucking killing me! You’re the most beautiful girl here – do you know how many guys have told me that? And I can’t even touch you….”

The most beautiful girl at the prom! Was he really talking about me? My big, strong Marine…I leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. He pulled back for a moment in surprise, then he surprised me by kissing me back, a deep soulful kiss that sparked a fire in my panties. We broke it off before anyone noticed, and sat there staring at each other for the longest time. Then the band broke into “Wooly Bully” and everybody on the dance floor started going wild. I gave him a pleading look, and he surprised me again by asking me if I’d like to dance. I was up before he could finish the sentence, and he followed me out onto the dance floor and watched in amusement as I started to gyrate in my long dress and heels. I totally lost myself in the moment, shaking and swaying to the pounding rhythm, the prettiest girl at the senior prom….

The song went on and on, as we moved our way around the floor, until we were standing a few feet away from the head table. My eyes locked on Mrs. Dumphrey She kept staring at me, and the longer she did, the surer I was that she had seen through me somehow. She was going to spoil my charade, humiliate Andy and ruin everything! Not if I beat her to it! I stood there, towering over her in my heels, feeling the eyes of hundreds of kids staring at me, as I reached behind my back and untied the straps of my halter dress. A collective gasp spread through the ballroom as my dress fell down to my hips. The Ohio State coed is topless! At the senior prom! The nerf balls tumbled out, one of them bounced on the head table and plopped into Mrs. Dumphrey’s soup. Then I tore off my wig and tossed it into the air, like a cadet at a military graduation. Another gasp from the crowd as they recognized me at last! Mrs. Dumphrey fainted dead away.

Coming soon: The Reunion

The Reunion

© 2015 by Nom de Plume

I never set foot in Grover Cleveland High School again. My spectacular appearance as a boozy, topless bimbo at the senior prom touched off a near riot which got me suspended for the rest of the year, and it was only because the powers-that-be never wanted to see me again that they let me graduate with my class. My “date” enlisted in the Marines, I headed west to make my fortune, and Dullsville USA was soon forgotten.

Until I came across a blog hyping our upcoming 20th reunion, harkening back to my outrageous masquerade and speculating on whether I’d had a sex change operation! My immediate reaction was to sue for slander, but that would only bring attention to me. Evidently nobody in Dullsville was aware of the fact that I was now a multi-millionaire, with a very private lifestyle in Portlandia, and I wanted to keep it that way.

So I logged off my computer and went to bed. Normally I fall into a dreamless sleep almost immediately, but that night I stayed awake for a long time. It wasn’t Audrey Forrest’s inane comments about me on the reunion blog that kept me from sleeping. It was the memory of that night, twenty years ago, which I’d all but forgotten: how it felt to wear a fancy dress, how it felt to be the prettiest girl at the prom, how it felt when Andy kissed me….

I’d had my share of good-looking guys since then, and more beautiful women than I cared to remember. After twenty years of searching, I had settled somewhere between the B and the T on the GLBT rainbow. I was very selective, and very safe. And I only made love to a guy when I was dressed as a woman. My condo had two bedrooms, one with a closet full of women’s clothes, and I’d perfected the art of female impersonation to the point where I could pass effortlessly as a woman. A woman who was attractive to discriminating men.

It had all started that magical night. I’d always thought I was just another heterosexual crossdresser, until Andy kissed me. It was like somebody threw a switch! As I tossed and turned, I wondered whatever happened to him? Was he still in the Marines? Had he gotten married? Or was he alone, like me? Did he remember me too? Before I drifted off to sleep, I decided to find out.

* * *

It took me a few days to clear my schedule, and I spent most of them surfing the web. The reunion was that coming Saturday, featuring a luncheon at Grover Cleveland, followed by a dinner dance at the same country club where I had posed as a tipsy coed. Next, I searched for any information about Andy’s whereabouts. And came up empty. His mother was still living in the same house, but Andy seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. My parents couldn’t help – they were long gone, having moved into a retirement home I bought for them in Scottsdale in return for promising not to tell anyone where the money came from. But Audrey Forrest was still in town, divorced and working as a real estate agent.

I packed two suitcases and flew first class to Cincinnati, where I had to rent a car and drive for almost an hour. It was a beautiful spring day, and I sprang for a convertible, which made the drive almost enjoyable. When I finally pulled into Dullsville, it was like the hands of time had turned back twenty years – nothing had changed. I found the street where Andy’s mother still lived, pulled into the driveway, and strode to the front door. When she opened it, I hardly recognized her: the sixty something woman standing before me was older, of course, and there was a sadness in her face that I did not remember. But it vanished as soon as she realized who I was. “Jay!” she cried, and we hugged for a long time before she sat me down in the living room. “You look wonderful! I can’t believe you’re here. Your parents disappeared without a trace years ago. What are you doing back in Dullsville?”

“Believe it or not, I’m here for our twentieth reunion.”

She laughed out loud. “Oh Lordy, what a surprise. I never thought you’d show your face again after the prom.”

“To tell you the truth, I got so drunk that night, I can’t even remember how I got home.”

“You didn’t! When Andy dragged you back here, I helped you take off your dress and clean off your makeup, and put you to bed on that couch you’re sitting on. Your folks were very unhappy the next morning.”

“So was the rest of the town. Where is Andy these days?”

The sadness returned to her face. “Let me get us some coffee.”

* * *

It took some time before she was ready to talk about it. Andy had gone into the Marines right after graduation, and fought in the Gulf War. He was almost killed in an ambush, and although his wounds were not life-threatening, he was never the same after that. “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, they called it. When he got out, he came back here for a while, and spent hours staring off into space. He sat right there, or in his room, for days on end. At first I thought it was only temporary, but as time went by and he didn’t get any better, I started to give up hope. I tried and tried to get through to him, but nothing seemed to work. Until I showed him that picture.”

“What picture?”

She got up and returned with a photo album. “You probably don’t remember this,” she said as she flipped through it, until she found an old color photograph of a boy in a white tuxedo, standing awkwardly next to a gorgeous girl in a long formal gown. It was Andy and me, on our way to the senior prom. “You were so precious! When I showed him that picture, he brightened up immediately, and we talked for hours about the good old days. ‘What ever happened to Jay?’ he’d ask me, over and over.

“Eventually he got well enough to leave home, and he enrolled in community college, but that didn’t last long. He got a job, and met a girl, but that didn’t last long either.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “But he refused to just stay here. He’s working for some county down in Kentucky, it’s a nothing job really, but it keeps him outdoors and he doesn’t have to wear a tie.”

“That sounds like Andy.”

“At least it keeps him fit. Do you know, he could still wear the clothes he wore in high school? I have a closet full of them.”

“So he still looks the same?”

“I wish! That last time I saw Andy, which was Christmas last year, he looked like a homeless person – scraggly hair and a long beard. Although I know he has a small apartment in Cincinnati. His disability checks from the Marines go there.”

“So he drives across the river to Kentucky every day?”

“He rides the bus.”

“Do you mind if I ask for his address?”

“Of course not! I’m sure he’d love to see you. And it might be the best thing for him. The doctors tell me that reliving happy experiences might help to bring him back.” She hesitated. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you.”

“Yes?”

“That day I showed him that picture, he said something. ‘The only girl I ever loved, and she wasn’t even a girl.’ Do you know what he meant?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

* * *

On the drive back to Cincinnati, I tried to process what I’d learned about Andy. He looked like a bum, he was living in poverty, and he remembered me as a girl. More than remembered – he told his mother he loved me. It doesn’t get much heavier than that!

I parked a block away from the address his mother gave me and cased the neighborhood. Andy lived in a scruffy garden apartment complex full of bikes and strollers. His apartment was on the first floor, and I could stake out the entrance from a park bench just outside. I left, checked into the Hyatt Regency downtown, and unpacked one of my suitcases. The one filled with women’s clothing, shoes and accessories.

I hadn’t anticipated this kind of date when I packed my suitcase in Portlandia! Fortunately, I’d thrown in a khaki skirt and knee sox, in case I needed to do some shopping – one of the many things I’ve learned after years of crossdressing is that the easiest way to blend as a woman is to wear what the women wear, and most of the dressy outfits I brought would have been totally out of place at a place like a mall. Although my hair was marginally long enough to wear as a woman, I had a wig that was very similar to the one I wore to the senior prom, and I wanted Andy to see me the way he remembered me. After a quick bath, I put on a body briefer and slip, some makeup, and did my nails. Memories of the only time I did this for Andy came flooding back. I wouldn’t have his mother’s help this time! After I padded myself up, I tugged on my wig, which instantly made me look ten years younger. I pulled on a girly mock turtleneck, stepped into my skirt, and pulled on my knee sox. So cute! Ballet flats completed the look.

I put my car keys and stuff into a casual purse, retrieved my car from the valet (nobody seemed to notice that I dropped it off as a guy and picked it up as a girl) and drove back to Andy’s neighborhood. The sun was low on the horizon, so I wore sunglasses, and this time I parked as close as I could – it would be dusk soon, and I always felt very vulnerable as a single woman after the sun went down. I tried the phone number that his mother gave me, but there was no answer, so I returned to the park bench and sat down to wait.

I didn’t have to wait for long. A municipal bus pulled up, and a tall, middle aged man shuffled off and started walking towards the apartment building. His jeans and flannel shirt looked like they hadn’t been washed in decades, which may have been the last time he had a shave and a haircut. It was Andy, all right. I put two fingers in my teeth and gave him the shrill whistle that we used to use to signal each other when we were kids.

He stopped instantly and slowly turned around. Then he just stood there, staring at me, for a minute at least, maybe longer, before he took a few tentative steps in my direction, and then stopped. I waved at him and motioned for him to join me. A few more baby steps, another pause, and eventually he was standing in front of me, looking down at his feet, his face flushed with embarrassment. He didn’t smell very good, but I stood up and hugged him, and he hugged me back. “Jay,” he finally said in a halting voice, “is it really you?”

“It’s Jayne, remember?” I replied, in a voice he hadn’t heard in twenty years. I took his hand and guided him to my bench. He collapsed next to me and began shaking and sobbing, tears streaming down his ruddy face. I just let him go, rubbing his shoulders occasionally, and saying over and over, “It’s okay, Andy. It’s okay.”

* * *

We sat on that bench until way after dark. Once Andy stopped crying, he started talking, and with a little prompting from me, he took me through what he could remember of the past twenty years, which wasn’t much. He vividly recalled his induction into the Marines, how he almost washed out of basic training but refused to give up and eventually became a squad leader. He also recalled his service in Iraq, up to the moment when a roadside ambush killed two of his buddies and almost him. He remembered next to nothing about his agonizing recovery, and the endless meetings with doctors and shrinks before he was finally eased out of the corps. His inability to bring back unpleasant memories seemed like some kind of defense mechanism to me, because he had no trouble remembering the good times at Grover Cleveland High. Especially the senior prom.

“You were so fucking hot,” he said. “That night, after you pulled down your dress, I was lucky to get you out of there alive.”

“I have no recollection of that. I was so drunk! Yesterday your mother told me I spent the night on your sofa.”

“Yep, when you weren’t talking to Ralph on the big white phone. Why did you call my mom?”

“To find you.”

He paused for a moment to digest this. “I think about you all the time.”

“And I couldn’t get to sleep the other night, thinking about you.”

He looked me up and down. “So when did you go under the knife?”

“Me? I’m still a guy, Andy.”

“No shit! You just dress up like that?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes I don’t. Call me a flibbertigibbet,” I shrugged.

“What do you do when you’re not making pretend you’re a girl?”

I laughed. “It’s a long story. I was hoping maybe you’d take me out to dinner, and we could get to know one another again.”

Now he laughed. “Uh, I might be able to afford Taco Bell.”

“My treat then. On one condition. No, make that two.”

“Yes?”

“Do some laundry and take a bath!”

* * *

We agreed to meet the following night, which was Friday, the day before the reunion. I hadn’t even mentioned the reunion to Andy, and I was so focused on my date with him that I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go. Still, it would be good to have a ticket, just in case. So before I went to bed, I logged onto the Grover Cleveland website and signed myself up. I got a ticket for a guest too, in case Andy felt like going. If he didn’t, I could always bail out. Now that Andy was back in my life, going to the reunion as a woman was the farthest thing from my mind.

I slept until almost noon, thanks to the 3 hour time difference, and treated myself to a room service breakfast in my nightgown and robe. Then I took care of business calls and emails before I spent some time surfing the web. For some reason I checked out the reunion blog, and found this post by Audrey Forrest:

Guess who just signed up for our reunion? Jay Fawcett, our class clown! Is the circus in town? Did he buy a new dress? We’ll find out Saturday night!

I was regretting my decision not to sue her for slander. Then I took another look at the itinerary for the reunion, and came up with the beginnings of a plan. I spent the next couple of hours scrutinizing real estate sites for information about Audrey Forrest’s listings, and was surprised when I finally looked at the time. Almost time to get dressed for my date with Andy! I spent a few minutes looking at the hotel guide, found the Cincinnati yellow pages in one of the nightstands, and jotted down some numbers and addresses. Then I called Andy’s mother to ask her a quick question, and got the answer I was hoping for.

It was time for Jay to become Jayne. First, a long, hot bubble bath. I took my time shaving off every bit of body hair, from head to toe, then I added some more hot water and just luxuriated in the sensation of sheer femininity before I toweled myself off and put on my wig and makeup. It was always a rush for me, dressing myself as a woman, but knowing that I was getting dressed for a date with a man sent my dopamine levels through the roof! The outfit I’d selected looked best with an “all in one” body briefer underneath to nip my waist, with lovely silicone breast forms and hip pads to round me out. Sheer nylons made my legs look and feel wonderful, a camisole and a lacy half slip would help my tie-back top and swirly skirt look like they were made for me, and my designer flats were very cute. A necklace, hoop earrings with built-in clips, a classy woman’s watch and a few rings completed the look.

I grabbed a matching purse and collected my car for the drive to Andy’s. He was waiting for me at our park bench, looking just the same as he had the night before, only it was obvious that he had scrubbed himself and put on some clean bum clothes. Why was I so attracted to him? Part of it had to do with our remembered past, and how totally cool he’d been the night of the prom. On another level, I felt genuine compassion for him after all he’d been through, risking his life while I was making millions and living la vida loca. But beyond all that, Andy had an animal magnetism, which brought out my female instincts to make a project out of him.

The attraction was mutual. “Wow,” he said when he climbed into my car. “I still can’t believe it’s really you.” It was a warm spring night, and I had the top down which made conversation difficult, but we were content just to be in each other’s presence. Twenty years is a long time, but it seemed like only yesterday when he was driving me to the senior prom. Now I doubted if he even had a driver’s license, let alone a car. Why was I so attracted to him?

I pulled up at the Hyatt and he followed me into the majestic lobby, drawing stares of disapproval from some of the staff and guests. Andy never seemed to care what people thought of him, and I took his hand as we rode the long escalator up to the mezzanine and found the fancy restaurant. The maître d’ blinked when he saw us, but maybe he thought Andy was a rock star, because he showed us to an out-of-the-way table. Andy asked for a beer, and I ordered a vodka tonic for old times’ sake. We sat there in our little booth, staring into each other’s eyes, for the longest time.

“I called my mom this morning. She told me you’re in town for some kind of reunion.”

“Yes, can you believe it? Twenty years since we left Grover Cleveland.”

“I can’t believe you’d want to go back.”

“It’s not important to me now.” I explained how I’d come across Audrey Forrest’s insults, and was so pissed I decided to come back and rub everyone’s noses in my improbable success. As we sipped our drinks, I took him through it, nice and slow: how I’d gotten in on the ground floor at an unknown company, inspired their groundbreaking marketing campaigns and ridden the wave. How I’d piled up millions of dollars. And how I was exploring my feminine side. The waiter came, and with some urging from me, Andy ordered a huge steak. I had pasta, and several glasses of wine, while Andy ate like a Biafran child.

When we were done, the waiter brought Andy the check. I asked him to hand it to me, and charged it to my room while Andy looked on. “Room 921/2,” he said. “You have two rooms?”

“It’s a suite, actually.”

“It’s probably bigger than my apartment.”

“Come see.”

* * *

The next morning, when I finally woke up, I looked over at the snoring hunk of man next to me and sighed. What a night!

Most of the men in my life had been fey Portlandia boytoys. There was something raw and genuine about the way Andy made love to me, although at first I didn’t think he had it in him. When we got to my suite, he looked around nervously while I kicked off my shoes and curled up on the sofa in my parlor.

Eventually he sat down next to me, and I could tell that he was staring at my legs. “I never saw them that night,” he finally said.

“Huh?”

“Your legs. You were wearing that long dress. And yesterday you had on those long sox. They’re really nice.” I took his hand and slid it up my nylons, feeling a spike of arousal while he began to explore under my skirt. I looked up at him expectantly and he kissed me, which felt funny at first because of his fuzzy beard, but he was very tender and gentle, almost tentative in the way he teased me with his tongue while his fingers continued to probe. I reached down to feel him through his trousers, and was surprised that he wasn’t hard. He broke things off and stammered, “I’m not much of a man anymore. Haven’t made it with a woman in so long…I’m sorry….”

“Is it because I’m really a guy?”

“No! You’re more of a woman than any woman I’ve ever made it with. It’s just been so long….”

“That’s okay, baby. We can just cuddle and talk, as far as I’m concerned. You want to know something? That kiss just now, it reminded me of the time you kissed me at the senior prom. So nice.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Want to see something? I’ve been carrying this around for twenty years.” It was an old, creased picture of my face, cut out from a photo like the one his mother had shown me the day before, taken the night he took me to the prom.

“I was a sweet young thing, wasn’t I?”

“You blew my mind that night. Messed me up real good, too. I mean, I made it with some girls after that, but it never felt right….”

“I’m so sorry, Andy! I never meant to fuck with your mind. It was all supposed to be just a stupid prank.”

“Don’t apologize.” He kissed me again, and I thought I could feel him stirring through his trousers. He looked into my eyes and said, “Maybe we could try.” I started to unbutton his shirt, and after he finished I unfastened his belt. He stood up and dropped his trousers, then I helped him pull off his boxers and sox. I was surprised to see that he was almost at half mast. I stood up and slowly stepped out of my skirt. Then I untied the bow behind my blouse and pulled it over my head. My lacy half slip was next. I sat back down beside him and let him kiss me, again and again, gently stroking him while he fondled my fake breasts through my camisole, and caressed my legs through my stockings.

Then I bent over and took him into my mouth, teasing his quivering penis with my teeth. “Oh baby,” he moaned. “Please don’t stop.” I kept at it, nibbling and sucking, and he got harder and harder, until I could tell that he was past the point of no return. “Oh God,” he cried out, and then he was cumming in my mouth, wave after wave, which I slurped down as best I could. I was so into pleasing him, which turned me on too, and when he was finally done I sat up and kissed him, a long, deep kiss that had me smoldering. He pulled down my pantyhose and started to fumble with my body briefer, confused that he couldn’t just pull it down like panties.

I stood up and took his hand, leading him into the bedroom. I pointed to the king sized bed and said, “Wait there.” Then I took a babydoll nightie, thong, garterbelt and stockings out of my suitcase and went into the bathroom to change. My wig was a mess, so I brushed it back into shape, then I took off my lingerie and nylons and pulled on my nightie and thong. The stockings were a nuisance to fasten, but I hoped they’d turn him on.

“Wow,” he said when I pranced back into the bedroom and hopped onto the bed next to him. “Look at you!”

“My turn,” I said, and I pushed him down and threw myself on top of him, sliding my silky legs against his while we locked in another deep kiss. My penis was getting hard, straining against my thong, which Andy pulled off me. Then he started to play with me, tugging and teasing as I got harder and harder. I reached down to find him stiff as a board – after so many years, his body was making up for lost time! I slid my ass over him and guided him into me while he lay back on the bed, not quite believing what was happening to him. He was still plenty slick from his first orgasm, and I was able to ease myself onto him, a little at a time, until I was impaled on his rock hard shaft, humping him up and down, up and down. His eyes rolled back in his head as he felt the beginnings of another orgasm beginning to well up in him, and I took his hand and placed it on my penis, which was almost ready too. Up and down, up and down, faster and faster, until he gritted his teeth and I could feel him throbbing inside me, which triggered my own orgasm, spewing gobs of semen on his chest as the waves of sweet ecstasy washed over me.

We collapsed into each other’s arms, and when we got our breath back, we talked for hours. It was like Andy hadn’t had any human companionship, intimate female companionship, for years, and once he got going, I couldn’t turn him off, not that I wanted to. So I mostly listened as he bared is soul about how he’d wasted his life, and when I told him things were going to be different from now on, he didn’t believe me. But the more I said it, the less he protested. Finally, we fell into a blissful sleep.

* * *

“Wakey wakey,” I whispered. Andy sat up with a start, looked at me, and smiled.

“So it wasn’t a dream, I’m really here, and you’re really you.”

“Yep.”

I gasped as he rolled me over on my back and wrapped my stockinged legs behind his neck. And I gasped again as he entered me, which hurt at first since we were both dry, but soon he was in me again and I was rocking to his rhythm, slowly at first, then faster and faster as he huffed and puffed, losing himself in unbridled joy at being a man again, with me as his woman, and when he came it was with a rush, and although I didn’t feel it coming, I came too, wicked spasms that I felt all the way down to my toes, sheer delight that went on and on and on….

When it was finally over, he spooned me and whispered over and over, “I love you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I told him, “and things are gonna be different from now on.”

“Like how?” he asked me.

“Well, for starters, you’re gonna move out of that disaster apartment and come home with me. And you’re gonna get a haircut, and shave off that beard, and be my Andy again.”

I waited for him to say no, but he didn’t. He just cuddled me, kissed my neck and said “We’ll see.”

We showered together – he saw me without my wig for the first time, but my hair was long enough for a girl and he didn’t seem to mind – and then we wrapped hotel bathrobes around ourselves and enjoyed a room service breakfast. I told him about my plans for the day, and at first he resisted. But I wore him down, and I was holding all the cards, so he reluctantly agreed.

I changed myself back into Jay. Andy frowned when he saw me. “I don’t know how to say this, but for some reason, when you’re a guy, it isn’t the same. The way I feel about you, I mean.”

“And when I’m a guy, I’m not particularly attracted to you. Weird, huh?”

“So where are we going with this?”

“Sweetheart, after last night, I could change my flight from Portland to Bangkok and have the operation tomorrow.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?”

“For us, Andy. For us.”

* * *

It was amusing to pick up my car as a guy this time – I did get a double-take from the valet – and we drove to Andy’s house first. His mother was overwhelmed, but she finally composed herself and served us coffee while we talked about old times. I excused myself at one point, found the package she had waiting for me by the front door, took it out to the car and stored it in the trunk. Andy didn’t notice a thing.

Then it was off to Grover Cleveland for the reunion luncheon. No tickets were required for this event, and we were both surprised by how many people were already milling around the lunchroom. As prearranged, Andy and I separated, and he started to mingle with startled classmates, who probably thought he was a homeless person who had wandered into the room looking for a free meal. Meanwhile, I made my way towards Audrey Forrest, who was holding court over a small knot of well-dressed men. In my jeans, outrageous tee shirt and sneakers, with long hair hanging over my ears, I was decidedly out of place. It didn’t take long for Audrey to spot me, and I’m sure she didn’t recognize me at first. I stood by myself, listening to snippets of conversation, until her curiosity got the better of her. “Who’s this mysterious stranger?” she asked.

“Hi Audrey. You’re looking good. Don’t you recognize me?”

It’s a truism that although people age at different rates, our voices stay the same (unless we’re changing genders) and Ashley’s eyes widened as she realized who I was. “Jay? Jay Fawcett?”

“You sound surprised to see me.”

“More like shocked. The last time I saw you, you looked a little different….”

“That was a fun night.”

“And what are you doing with yourself these days?” The guys she had been presiding over were staring at me too.

“Counting my millions.”

She laughed out loud. “So where do you live?”

“I have three homes.”

“Still the class clown.” She pulled a business card out of her purse. Audrey Forrest, Realtor. With a picture that made her look many years younger. “Looking for a fourth?” she taunted me.

“Not right now. But I know someone who could use your help. He’s right over there.” I pointed to Andy, who was hunkered down at the appetizer table, shoveling pretzels into his mouth.

“He looks like he sleeps under a bridge.”

“He’s not long on cash, but he has a small income. Maybe you could help him find something?”

“I don’t think so.” She looked away from him.

Just then a familiar voice came over the PA system. “Welcome to the Class of 95! Will you please find seats so that lunch can be served.” Who was that voice? My God, it was Mrs. Dumphrey!

“I can’t believe that old bag is still a guidance counsellor. Hasn’t she poisoned enough young minds?” I said.

Audrey was shocked. “You really have been away, Jay. Mrs. Dumphrey has been the principal of Grover Cleveland for years.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

I could feel her presence behind me before I turned around. Twenty years older, with the same dour face and dumpy figure, Mrs. Dumphrey was fit to be tied. She glowered at me like I was some kind of truant before she said, “You’ve got some nerve, Mr. Fawcett, showing up here looking like a bum and using such language.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” I told her. “What a buzzkill.”

Smoke was coming out of her ears. “You were a waste of a desk and a chair twenty years ago, and I can see that nothing has changed.” A crowd was gathering, and Andy joined us, pretzel crumbs in his beard. Mrs. Dumphrey rolled her eyes. “And who is this creature? Another sad commentary on Grover Cleveland High School before I became principal.”

“Maybe if I made a contribution to your college scholarship fund for worthy students, you’d feel differently?”

“That’s a laugh. You’ll probably need to pass the hat for bus fare home.”

“Suppose I were to raise a million dollars? On one condition?”

“Ha! That you don’t get caught robbing the bank?”

“No. That you resign and drag your sorry ass out of Dullsville.”

There was dead silence. The other alumni were gaping in shock, except for Andy, who was taking it all in with amusement. Then Audrey Forrest whispered something in Mrs. Dumphrey’s ear, and a wicked smile came over her toadlike face. “If you can raise the money by tonight, you’re on. Provided you meet one condition: you will have to dress as a woman, every day, for an entire year!” Peals of laughter rocked the lunch room.

* * *

Andy returned to his pretzels, and I found a quiet corner to make two calls on my cell phone. The first was a quick call to my personal banker. The second was a longer, more difficult call to my boss. When I was through, I signaled Andy, and we bailed out before lunch was served. He waited until we got back to my car before he started in on me. “You really stepped in it back there, bro.”

“Yeah, I guess I kind of lost my cool with that bitch.”

“Could you really come up with that kind of money?”

“That’s no problem. Tell me, did anybody recognize you in there?”

Andy laughed. “Hell no, they all thought I was a panhandler.”

“Perfect.” He asked me what I meant, but we were pulling up in front of the barbershop I’d found in the yellow pages. “Follow me,” I said.

Andy got out of the car and stood outside the door. “Are you getting a haircut?”

“No. You are.”

“No fucking way.”

“And you’re losing that awful beard, too.”

“You’re starting to piss me off.”

“Are you forgetting about last night already?”

“Wait, what?”

I raised my voice to Jayne’s. “How good it felt to hold me? To be inside me?”

“No, but….”

“No buts, Mister. You’ve got one shot at me, and it’s decision time, right now. Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life kissing a bear?”

“The rest of your life?”

“You heard me. If you don’t want that, if you don’t want me, just say so right now, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Jay…Jayne, I think I do want that. I think I do.”

“Then get your ass in there!”

* * *

I gave the barber $200 and made sure Andy was planted in a chair before I left to shop for something to wear to the reunion. I’d planned to wear a sweet little dress with a matching bolero jacket, but after my run-in with Audrey and Mrs. Dumphrey, I figured something a bit sexier was called for.

It’s always easier to shop for women’s clothing when you’re dressed as a woman, and I had some other projects too, so my next stop was the Hyatt, where I changed back into Jayne. I toyed with the idea of putting on my khaki skirt and knee sox again, but for some reason I felt like wearing that sweet little dress – I’m such a girl! – which wouldn’t be too dressy for downtown Cincinnati. With navy nylons and a matching purse and heels, I was every inch the career woman as I walked the few blocks to Saks Fifth Avenue, turning the heads of several well-dressed men along the way.

I love to shop, but I didn’t have all day, so I made a beeline for the Misses department and started my search for something hot. It didn’t take long for me to spy a black tank top that was just dressy enough to wear to a special occasion. Before I tried it on, I searched fruitlessly for a cute skirt to wear with it. Nothing seemed right! In desperation, I tried my luck in the Juniors department – I can’t get away with Juniors tops, but my hips are so slim that Juniors skirts sometimes work for me, and sure enough there it was: a short pencil skirt with turquoise leaves and pink flowers on a white background with black trim. It was darling! I found a fitting room, hurriedly took off my jacket and dress, and pulled on the top and skirt. They were perfect on me! The skirt was unlined, so I’d need a short half slip, and of course my blue nylons looked ridiculous, but I didn’t intend to wear nylons that night, and after I took off the skirt and top I peeled them off.

Then it was back into my dress and heels, off to the lingerie department to find a slip, and on to shoes and purses. Where I came up empty! So I paid for the skirt, slip and top and raced across the street to Macy’s. Success! In short order I scored a cute pair of strappy heels, a little black and white purse that would be perfect for evening, and my last acquisition: a statement necklace that matched the flowers on my new skirt. I was laden down with shopping bags when I returned to the Hyatt, just in time for my appointment at the nail salon. A manicure and pedicure in hot pink, please!

After a quick word with the hotel concierge, it was off to a local branch of my bank, where I picked up the check I’d ordered earlier that afternoon. I had to show my ID, of course, and it was amusing to observe the double-takes from the teller and two bank officers before they were satisfied I was really me. This type of episode used to unnerve me, but I figured I was never going to see these people again, and I certainly gave them something to talk about!

I didn’t have time to return to my room before I picked up Andy. I was dying to see what he looked like, and I wasn’t disappointed: standing outside the barber shop was a devastatingly handsome man, who looked like I’d imagined Andy to be in my dreams – tall, with a full head of neatly trimmed hair, dark without a hint of gray. And his face! Now that I could see it again, I wanted him more than ever. Of course, he was still dressed like a bum, but that was going to change next. He climbed into the car and started to grumble as we drove back to the hotel. “I can’t believe you made me put up with that shit! The barber said he was calling Guinness Book of World Records. I look like I’m in seventh grade!”

I just smiled sweetly while he unloaded on me. When we got to the hotel, I gathered up my shopping bags, and handed Andy the package which his mother had given me. “What’s this?”

“You’ll see. Follow me.” He kept grumbling all the way down the hall and up the elevator, until we got to my suite. Where I pointed him towards the powder room and told him, “Put on the clothes in that package.” Then I closed the door to the bedroom before he had a chance to protest, and hung up my new skirt and top. I took off my jacket, and I was fixing us drinks in the parlor when Andy came back into the room. In a perfectly fitting suit, shirt and tie. Even his shoes were polished – his mother was a saint. He looked like a male model on the cover of GQ, and he knew it, too: that old, dashing smile that I remembered from his youth was back. My Andy was back!

I handed him a beer and sat down demurely in my little dress. “Cheers!” I said, lifting my glass of Chardonnay.

“You’re looking very prim and proper tonight.”

“Not for long. You know what’s funny? You made a much bigger transformation than I did today.”

“Hardly.”

“No, it’s true! Ever since last night, you’ve been changing, can’t you see it?”

“So I look a little different. I’m still a guy.”

“It’s not just the way you look, sweetheart. Yesterday you were a whipped dog. Now you’re an alpha male.”

“Maybe I can score with a real woman now?”

I punched him on the arm. “Don’t be such a brat!”

“You think you have me wrapped around your little finger, don’t you?”

“Um hmm.” I leaned over and kissed him, gently on the lips. “Shall I tell you what we have planned for tonight?”

“We can stay right here, as far as I’m concerned.”

“No, in a few minutes I’m going to put on a ridiculously hot outfit, and you are going to take me to our twentieth reunion.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Here are our tickets.” I handed them to him. “You just be yourself. Everybody will be talking about you. I’ll just be your hot date. Nobody will guess who I am.”

* * *

I’ve been dressing as a woman long enough to know when I pass, but for the first time since the senior prom twenty years before, I could tell that something special was happening. Then, it was Andy’s mother who’d put me over the top, but that night, it was twenty years of trial and error that guided me through my hair, my makeup, and by the time I’d changed into my new outfit, I was pretty sure I was smoking hot. Any doubt was erased when I saw the look on Andy’s face when I returned to the parlor. “Holy shit,” he said, “is that really you?”

“You Tarzan, me Jayne. Pour me a vodka tonic, please.” I had to be careful sitting down in my tight little skirt.

He poured me a stiff one and popped another beer for himself. “Better be careful. Remember what happened the last time you got started on those?”

“Yes. I was the prettiest girl at the senior prom, to quote someone I know.”

“I want to fuck you right now.”

“I’ve created a monster!”

“Let’s do it before you’re too drunk to drive.”

“That won’t be a problem tonight.” As if on cue, the telephone rang. It was the concierge. “Your limousine is here, madam.”

“Thanks, we’ll be right down.” Then to Andy, “Showtime!”

* * *

I wasn’t expecting a gold stretch limo, but that’s what we got. Andy was in hysterics at first, then he tried to molest me, and I had to fight him off all the way to Dullsville. In between rounds, I drilled him on what to say, and what not to say, at the reunion: I was just a “friend.” He worked out of state, and didn’t want to discuss his business. Turn every conversation around onto what the questioner was doing with his/her life. The bar in the limo was stocked, and by the time we rolled up to the country club, we were both half bombed.

There was a crowd standing outside the front entrance, and they all gaped and stared as the best-looking couple at the reunion climbed out of their ride. You would think Donald and Melania Trump had just pulled into Dullsville. I took Andy’s arm, and the throng parted as we marched into the lobby.

A dumpy looking woman whom I remembered as a munchkin in high school was sitting at a card table, taking tickets. Andy handed her ours, and when she asked for our names, he said, “Andrew Parsons and friend.” She scratched her head as she looked through the list on the table. Of course I’d purchased our tickets in my name, so she had a mystery on her hands. But she remembered Andy, so she took the tickets and waved us into the ballroom. An open bar beckoned, and Andy went off to reload while I looked around the room.

Every eye seemed to be on me. They looked away quickly, which told me that they didn’t recognize me. I was simply the most beautiful woman at their reunion, the date or trophy wife of some lucky guy. Then Andy returned with our drinks, and the focus of the room shifted onto him. Who was that? Was that Andy Parsons? He hadn’t aged a bit in twenty years! Where had he been? How did he afford that limousine? Where did he meet that beautiful woman? I could feel the buzz sweeping through the room, although Andy seemed oblivious. Until Audrey Forrest made her way up to us. “Andy? Is that really you?”

“Oh, hi Audrey. You look nice.” Which was a stretch: she’d obviously spent all day getting her hair and nails done, and maybe had a facial too. Her legs weren’t bad under that dress, which was way too young for her, so her little belly was straining against the seams. And her arms had started to go to fat, I observed. Meow!

“You look fantastic, Andy.” She acknowledged me with a nod, then tried to steer him away. “So what have you been doing with yourself all these years? Nobody even knew you were coming.”

Meanwhile, a middle-aged man in a plaid sport coat was making a move on me. He looked vaguely familiar…the captain of the football team? Could be. His bad comb-over and bulging gut made it difficult to be certain. “You must be Andy’s date,” he said confidently.

“Um hmm.”

“He didn’t make much of a splash at Grover Cleveland.”

“Were you the big man on campus?”

“So they tell me.” He launched into an epic description of his high school exploits, while I watched Audrey pour the charm on Andy. As he related to me later, she started by trying to sell him a house, and moved on to suggesting that he dump me and come home with her. Meanwhile, my admirer continued to pour it on. “That top is very becoming on you. If I was on you, I’d be coming too.”

I looked down at his wedding ring and laughed. “You really are a first class piece of shit,” I told him. His mouth opened in shock. “Is your wife here tonight? Or do you just wear a wedding ring to fool people into thinking you’re not really gay?”

“I’m not gay!” he stammered, in a voice so loud that people turned their heads to stare at him.

“Then why are you hitting on a transgendered woman?” He recoiled in shock, and melted into the crowd. I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to tell any of his classmates that he’d just tried to pick up a man. I returned to Andy and Audrey, who was clinging to his arm. “Aren’t you a little old for him, sweetie?”

“You’ve got some nerve,” Audrey scowled at me.

“Take your hands off my man, bitch!” A crowd started to gather as Audrey and I squared off. Cat fight!

The crowd parted to make way for Mrs. Dumphrey, who had been watching it all with displeasure. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This bimbo insulted me!” Audrey pouted.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Mrs. Dumphrey told me imperiously.

“You can’t kick out a member of the class. This is my reunion, we’re on private property, I paid to be here, and I’m sure you didn’t.”

“You’re not a member of the Class of 1995!”

I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card. Jay Fawcett, Executive Vice President of a household name. Mrs. Dumphrey blanched when she read it. Then her eyes slowly raised, as she studied me intently, from my painted toes and killer legs to my shapely physique and striking face. She was still staring at me when I pulled something else out of my purse: a cashier’s check in the amount of $1,000,000 payable to The Grove Cleveland College Scholarship Fund. Mrs. Dumphrey fainted dead away.

* * *

In the limo on the way back to Cincinnati, Andy asked me if I’d lost my mind. “I don’t think so, baby. All in all, it’s been a pretty amazing couple of days: I found you, made you into my dreamboat, screwed Mrs. Dumphrey and did some good for the kids in Dullsville.”

“What makes you think she’ll really resign?”

“She has no choice. When the Board of Education reads the letter I send them, stipulating that my contribution is contingent on her keeping her promise, she’ll have to go.”

“How about you? How can you go back to work, dressed as a woman?”

“That was the hard part. But I’ve been meaning to step away – I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need – so I told my boss this afternoon. Although he’s so cool, I could probably stay anyway.”

“But you’ll still have to dress as a woman for a year.”

“Who’s complaining?” I pushed the button that raised the privacy screen between us and the driver.