Do you go through life wondering what people know about you?

A Bonnie Lass
by Angela Rasch

“Is she really going out with him?” The not-so-subtle whispers echoed through the locker room while grinning boys were exchanging jockey shorts for jockstraps, in anticipation of hotly contested dodgeball, on the gym floor. The comment sounded like the beginning of that song -- that was #1 a few months back, The Leader of the Pack. Instead of the Shangri-Las singing about a motorcycle hoodlum, the other boys in the gymnasium dressing room were questioning the validity, of my love life.

Bonnie Berg and I were going on our second date that following Friday to see Goldfinger, a new James Bond movie. All of us guys had read all the Ian Fleming books. I’d seen Dr. No and From Russia with Love with my buddies and laughed at all the double entendres. But taking a girl to see a spy thriller would be a new experience.

Almost everything I did with Bonnie was a “new experience.”

I hadn’t dated many girls because I had broken my leg in a fight, with a sophomore, during my freshman year. I had taken a sophomore’s position as a fullback on our JV football team, and he couldn’t handle the humiliation of someone younger than him being a better athlete.

There were a lot of boys, in the class above me, Bonnie's classmates, who disliked me. I didn’t know why and elected to think it was because word had gotten out that I had scored in the top one percentile, on a national scholastics test. Only one other person in our small, Catholic high school had scored above ninety-five percentile, and she was deemed “okay” because a girl could be smart.

I was bigger, faster, and stronger than most of the boys in my class, or the class above mine. But that didn’t stop the older guys from calling me names like “wimp” or “dickhead.”

And now, it looks like I’m going to be going steady, with Bonnie. It’s easy to tell she really likes me, and I’m nuts about her. I haven’t gone steady with anyone before because the priests and nuns say it’s a sin, which I question.

Teddy O’Hearn told me “Bonnie” means pretty in Ireland. As far as I’m concerned Bonnie Berg is the prettiest girl in our high school. . .and the nicest.

“Why’s Bonnie going out with you, whistledick?” one truly obnoxious Neanderthal asked derisively.

“Up yours!” I yelled for everyone to hear. “If you weren’t such an incredible loser, maybe you could get a date, with something.”

A year before, when I had gotten into that playground fight, during the first week of December, I had slipped on loose gravel on top of the cement slab where we played outdoor basketball. I had hit my head and knocked myself out. The boy who had just called me “whistledick” had jumped up and down on my leg and broken both my tibia and fibula, in two places.

That didn’t mean I wouldn’t kick his butt, if I had to prove my masculinity.

After the movie, we were going over to her friend’s house to make Chef Boyardee pizza out of a box. I’d never had pizza and really looked forward to seeing what everyone was so excited about.

“I suppose she’s going out with me because she likes me. Is that too hard for a moron like you, to figure out on your own?”

“Bonnie’s sort of weird. But eventually, she’ll figure out you’re an asshole.” The guy who said that had one enduring quality. Because of him you never had to worry that anyone would claim you had the worst breath, in school. His personal odor rated somewhere between putrid and horse manure.

Do they hate me because I’m smarter than them and better at sports? Or is it possible I’ve somehow slipped up and given away my secret?

I had a keen interest in girls and loved almost everything about them. I couldn’t imagine anything better than the way they smelled, which was what I thought would be the aroma of heaven. I spent hours admiring the glistening skin on their hairless legs -- poking out from below billowing skirts, that made much the same sound as the slashing against your legs when you ran through a field of fully-grown wheat.

I dreamed of girls for hours on end -- dreamed of dating them, kissing them, slow dancing with them, and pressing against their soft bodies.

Oddly, I also dreamed of being one of them.

That was my innermost secret. A desire I told no one.

My urge was incredibly strong. I had dressed in my older sister’s clothing on the sly as often as I could. I went to bed every night wishing and dreaming that I would wake the next day -- not as the rough and tumble boy I had been born, but as the delicate female I was, on the inside.

No. It’s impossible for anyone else to know how I feel. I’ve been very careful to show only my male side to the world. As far as those pricks know, I’m one hundred percent boy. No one knows I’m really this freak. I’m one of a kind. . .the only guy in the world who thinks he should have been born a girl.

“She’s going out with him because she thinks he’s fun.” Bonnie’s brother, Charlie, had offered his two cents, from across the room. A classmate, Charlie was almost a non-entity — strictly from dullsville. He was on the smaller side and didn’t play sports. His claim to fame was riding a unicycle he had built for himself out of old bicycle parts. “Bonnie told me she thinks he’s the cutest boy in school.”

***

“We’ve been dating, for over four months, now,” she said.

I looked into her beautiful grey eyes and felt the lust that lurked barely below the surface whenever I was with her. Some nights, after our dates, my balls ached from having a raging hard-on, for hours on end. It was still the mid-sixties, and I was as button-downed as required by the ethics of the day. It would be several more years before the sexual revolution.

Probably the most wonderful thing about Bonnie was that she seemed to really “get” me. It was as if she could see into my soul and understand what I was all about. She appreciated me for the person I truly was.

Not that our relationship wasn’t hard.

Dating Bonnie was like painting a house on a tall stepladder. Every stepladder has a warning label. “The top or top step shall not be used as a step.” A stepladder uses the power of the triangle to establish a strong base below. When you go beyond the safety standards and use the top step, all of the advantages of a triangle are lost and the ladder becomes extremely unstable, both in strength and in the ability, to remain upright.

Sometimes, you just have to ignore that warning, not only in the use of stepladders -- but in personal relationships.

Sometimes, you need to reach heights that are beyond safe. Even though it had been scary dating her, I enjoyed immensely every minute — every second of our dating. For example, one night I stayed out until 4:30 AM because I didn’t want to be the first one who said it was too late.

“Four months,” I echoed. We were sitting on the front porch of her house. We’d just gone to a school hootenanny and had our usual great time. People had become accepting of us as a couple.

We kissed, and then she pulled away to arm’s-length. The look on her face was as if I had spit on her mother.

“I’ve been testing you all night.”

“Huh?” I asked stupidly.

“I read this test in a magazine, and I’ve been giving it to you all night.”

This doesn’t sound good.

“You flunked,” she said, as if I was a piece of gum on the bottom of her shoe. “That kiss was the last straw.”

“What do you mean, ‘last straw?’”

“The boy is supposed to kiss the girl,” she said. “I had to kiss you. You’re not the boy who’s right for me.”

And that was it.

We were over.

On the way home, from her house, struggling for answers, I wondered if there was any way she could have known about my urges. No . . . it has to be something else. I wear my lettermen’s jacket everywhere I go. No one has any idea.

I was dumbfounded.

We remained friends. That’s how pathetic I was.

I slowly moved on and found what I thought was the love of my life, picking a freshman, when I was a junior, as my new girlfriend. She was pretty and a cheerleader. I fell head over heels in love.

When junior prom rolled around -- I took Bonnie’s best friend. My girlfriend couldn’t go because she was too young, and Bonnie asked me to take her friend -- because she hadn’t been asked. I didn’t have it in me to say “no.” I’m sure Bonnie had counted on that.

At the time, I thought Bonnie should've had her brother Charlie take her friend to prom.

One time, Bonnie had asked me if I liked Charlie. When I said he was an okay guy, she smiled and answered, "I was afraid you thought he was weird. A lot of people do."

***

During college, I would line up Bonnie with dates when she came to Brookings, where I was enrolled at South Dakota State University. She would reciprocate when I went to Vermillion, where she attended the University of South Dakota.

On one occasion, she set me up with one of her best friends, a girl who might have been Madonna, a few decades later. She was funny, cute, and very with it. We dated several times. But she was too avant-garde for me.

Bonnie called when she heard I didn’t want to go out with her friend anymore.
“You know,” she said, “you’re not the big stud you seemingly want people to believe you are.”

The way she said it caused me to wonder again if my slip was showing. But that was impossible. I had joined the most masculine fraternity on our campus and had become one of the hardest drinking, women-chasing, BMOC’s imaginable.

I had also taken every psychology course I could, eager -- and yet fearful -- to find out what was wrong with me. In all those courses, I found one paragraph, in one textbook, which discussed the “abnormal” desire some men have, to dress in women’s clothing. At least, I knew there were more like me, abnormal as I was.

***

The last time I saw Bonnie was at her wedding.

All I remember of it was -- that for some reason -- fate had dealt me one last opportunity when her husband walked into the same bar I was drinking at -- about an hour before the ceremony.

Out of spite, and a sense of justice, I kept him there, pouring scotch into him until five minutes before he was scheduled, to meet her at the altar. He made it, slightly the worse for wear and then I had to watch her float down the aisle to a life with him.

In truth, he most likely was the better man for her. He was so darned cute I probably would have screwed him, even though I’ve never swung from that side of the plate. He was noted as one of the nicest people in our high school. He didn’t have a reputation for his brains, although he graduated from college with a pharmacy degree . . . an extremely demanding curriculum.

***

In my early sixties, I finally went to an all-school reunion. I hadn’t thought of Bonnie, in years. My memory of her had faded when other loves were lost and found, including my current wife, of over thirty-five years.

One of my classmates came up to me. "Have you seen Bonnie? She's the best-looking woman at the reunion. She's here, with her sister."

He's drunk. Bonnie doesn't have a sister. But . . . I have to see her.

I searched for her, for about ten minutes. When I finally did locate her -- I thought I was seeing double. From thirty feet away, it looked like Bonnie had somehow split into two incredibly elegant women.

My mind shifted into overdrive and poured doubts into those crevices that had eroded in my brain from years of guilt and shame. Somehow, she had to have known. Way back then, she had to have realized I’m transgendered, even though no one knew that word at that time. But how? How did she know? Even now, I maintain a masculine persona.

I found the courage to walk up to her. When I got close, I could tell which one was Bonnie. The fact that she had her arm hooked through her husband’s arm tipped the scale. Both women are gorgeous. The other one must be a cousin, because Bonnie only had the two brothers: Charlie and. . ..

A smile split Bonnie’s face. “It’s so good to see you. I was hoping you would come to the reunion. It’s been too long.” She hugged me warmly.

I accepted her husband’s handshake and wished I hadn’t been such a jerk before their wedding.

“Have you and Charlene had a chance to catch up?” Bonnie turned me toward the other woman. “You remember my sister, don’t you?”

Sister????

I looked to the girl I had thought was Bonnie’s cousin and suddenly realized I had been Charlene’s classmate many, many years before.

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Bart has never allowed Jenny out of the house. She thinks it’s high time to move forward -- but is it really a good idea?

A Night at the Food and Fuel
by Angela Rasch

I had vowed to leave my apartment. My hand had just caressed the doorknob when a massive jolt shot through my shoulders, neck, and head.

Fight or Flight!

Psychologists say adrenalin-fired, anxiety attacks are a remnant of an era when our prehistoric ancestors had a choice of either running or defending themselves against a predator or enemy.

Face up to it, Jenny. It’s only adrenalin — so accept it. Relax and think of sprawling on a freshly-mowed lawn -- looking up at white, fluffy clouds. Let time pass so all that nasty chemical can work its way through. No biggie.

My fingers went to my wrist and counted. I watched fifteen seconds tick off on the wall clock next to the hall mirror. Twenty-one. Mercy! My pulse is eighty-four. That’s what it is when I’m doing my Pilates.

You can do this.

I had tried before, at least a dozen times, and never had the nerve to make it out my door. I’m going to do it tonight. It won’t kill me, and I need to do this, or I’ll simply die of frustration . . . or curiosity.

Once I had been completely elegant and chic, opened the door, and then almost stepped into the hall. The door to the apartment two doors down opened and my neighbor came out. I had quickly shut my door and sank to the floor in anger, shame, and total confusion. Can I help it if I like the safety and fearlessness of my apartment?

No matter what — I’m going out tonight. Even if one of my neighbors does pay attention to me, they will only see Jenny and wonder who that pretty girl is coming out of Bart’s apartment.

The phone rang, jarring me out of my internal argument.

“Hello,” I breathed, amazed how even that one word sounded exactly like the Jenny I was trying my best to be.

“Who is this?” A familiar and seemingly highly frustrated woman’s voice demanded. “Let me speak to Bart.”

Oh golly, it’s Mom! Why did I use my Jenny voice? I love Mom dearly, but. . .she seems to always catch me when I’m absorbed in being. . .me. In many ways, she’s the most important person in my life, and yet. . .. I forced myself to speak in a lower timbre. “Hello, Mom.”

“Who was that who answered the phone? That wasn’t Emily. Are you sneaking around behind Emily’s back?” Her tone reeked of disapproval.

She would really have a fit if she could see me. “No.” I could never be unfaithful to Emily. “That was my neighbor; she just stopped by . . . to borrow a jar of salsa.” I winced at how lame my lie had sounded.

“Salsa? Who borrows salsa? You’re so naíve. Is she pretty?”

I hope “she” is pretty.

“I’ll spell it out. She’s just trying to make friends with you? In a way, I don’t blame you for looking for greener pastures. Emily is so controlling.”

“Em’s just looking out for me.”

Mom expressed her disgust for my unwillingness to stand on my own two feet by clicking her teeth. “I spoiled you rotten. Being the last of five kids has ruined you forever. -- Ask her to sit down and wait for a second while we talk . . . I only called to make sure you’ll come to dinner on Sunday.”

“She’s already gone and yes . . . I’ll be home for Sunday dinner, just like I’ve been every other Sunday for the last six years, ever since I graduated from college.” Oh golly! Did she hear my earring scrap against the phone? I should have taken it off before answering. It’s fortunate she’s so text-illiterate and doesn’t want to Skype or Zoom.

“Did you remember to pay your uncle for that tune-up he did on your VW?”

“Oh, I completely forgot. I’m always forgetting things like that. Will you see him this weekend at church?”

“Sure, Honey. I’ll pay him for you when I see him. That’s one more hug you’ll owe me on Sunday.”

Our conversation continued with her wanting to know what I was doing for Halloween. I made up a lie about a party and told her I was going as the Tinman from The Wizard of Oz. I’m not used to lying. By the time we had ended the call, I was completely unsettled and almost ready to call off my big evening.

I paced, mentally slowing my body to lower my pulse. I shuddered involuntarily. I need to get everything under control or I’ll start sweating and ruin my outfit.

I checked myself in the mirror for the hundredth time. Everything looks just fine. I had mentally debated each and every part of my preparation. I had started getting ready as soon as I got home from my job as a loan officer in a small community bank. Each step toward a total transition had gone exactly as planned.

Of course, I spent three to five nights a week in my apartment dressed en femme . Making the change from boy to girl was not a big deal. No “big deal” except tonight I’m going out, into the real world, for the first time -- which is a HUGE, PETRIFYING DEAL.

I sighed and grabbed my black, soft-leather tote. I had removed the shoulder strap, preferring to carry it by its double handles. It was filled with my billfold and enough make-up to repair any conceivable disaster. Like an earthquake or a flood! It would be just my luck to get caught in some natural calamity, on my first night out.

I pirouetted in my ebony, Fiona, two-inch heel boots. Wearing them had been my biggest decision. I’m only five’ six” in my stocking feet so the boots wouldn’t make me appear too horribly tall, but even though I had walked in them night after night in my living room, I panicked when I thought of all the different surfaces and landmines I could come across in the real world.

Let’s go, Jenny.

I bit my lip, looked out from under my honey-blonde, shoulder-length wig at the awaiting world, and then cautiously ventured out into the hall.

So far so good.

I didn’t have to remind myself to take smaller steps, because the charcoal, tweed, pencil skirt I had selected made it impossible to stride like I would in a pair of pants. I love fashionable clothing. The hours I spend pouring through magazines to keep up on the latest styles are some of my happiest moments.

My aubergine, silk, poet blouse would look rather ridiculous with men’s trousers. I laughed a quiet sort of giggle -- instead of the rumbling chuckle I used to express my amusement at work.

I jumped when a cat screamed, not more than fifteen feet away from me. My hand went to my throat like I had seen hundreds of actresses do in movies when they were shocked. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before starting to walk down the hall again. I’d love to have a cat, but they’re such a big commitment.

My car was parked in the communal garage one floor down, out the back door, and across an open courtyard. When I opened the backdoor, I spotted a small group of people sitting around the sand volleyball pit -- drinking beer. They probably had just finished playing. Two of the men, I believe their names are Scott and Rich, looked intently at me, and I almost stumbled.

Just keep walking. If they call your name, don’t acknowledge them. Just pretend you’re someone else.

You are someone else! You’re Jenny. Bart would be scared, but Jenny is confident and ready for a night on the town.

I smiled broadly. I’m outside. I’m going out for the evening . . . and I’m happy.

Nobody yelled. I glanced back at Scott and Rich and noted that their attention had gone back to the girls with them. I felt relief . . . and a bit of competitive disappointment. I’m prettier than those girls!

I opened my car door, sat, and then brought my legs around into the car, as I had practiced on my kitchen chair. Looking in my rearview mirror, I marveled at how lovely my eyes looked. It had taken me months to become proficient with all the pencils and brushes needed to make doe-eyes, but it had been worth it.

Funny, for a moment I didn’t want to be noticed when what I really, really would like is for people to admire my beauty. That’s why I have to go out.

My lips parted and my tongue licked at my watermelon gloss. I grinned, thinking how I had wanted to wear my reddest red -- but had gone sensible with a subtle shade.

My car hummed contently while I went through the familiar motions of backing out of my assigned parking spot, and then pulling onto McKnight Road, which passed by our building.

The Channel Five weatherman had predicted showers and gusty winds for Halloween Eve. Thankfully, he had been wrong and it was a tranquil evening. As I slowed to a stop at a red light I looked out at a crisp, clear night that could only be described in one word. “Perfect,” I said out loud in as sweet an alto voice as I could manage, while catching my reflection in the side mirror.

“Think about your driving,” I cautioned myself. “The last thing you need is to get pulled over for speeding.” If the worst happens, I’ll just tell the officer I’m on my way to a Halloween party. Hopefully, that’ll work.

I was going to the Cabooze in St. Paul. Their normal Whiskey and Western Wednesday fare featured a local rockin’ country group. I’d heard them twice before and found their music to be well worth the $15 cover charge. I needed the prospect of fun after three days of a nine-to-five rut. I should find something better to do with my life.

Even though it now seemed like my desire to experience life as a woman outside my home had abruptly overwhelmed my normal wisdom, it hadn’t been a rash decision. In fact, I had been planning for tonight for nearly six months. I’d gone over what I would wear, make-up, wig, and accessories a thousand times to make sure everything would afford me the maximum opportunity to pass. Every time I had been to the Cabooze, I paid detailed attention to the women, noting exactly how they looked and acted.

It was my intent to give Jenny a night on the town to enjoy herself after a lifetime of seclusion.

Every car that passed me seemed to contain at least one curious male who gave me a look of interest. Several looked as if they were sneering, after they had seen me. Each incident had been fleeting so I couldn’t say for sure, but an icy chill shot up and down my spine. Don’t be silly, nothing bad is going to happen to you. This is St. Paul — not New York.

For over a month, I had spent nearly every night in my apartment honing my skills with consummate “final” dress rehearsals. On two separate occasions, about a week apart, there had been persistent knocking at my door, while I cowered in my bedroom, quaking in my skirt and heels, until whoever it had been finally went away.

Once I accidentally left the living room drapes open and it appeared that Sue from across the way had been staring at me, but she didn’t say anything to me the next time we saw each other at the complex swimming pool, so I had been lucky.

Even though I had been petrified by those close calls, I continued to be Jenny as often as possible. You might say I’m obsessed, but I know my dressing simply allows me to be true to my nature.

I was so practiced at becoming Jenny that I had found myself ready a full half-hour before I had to be -- to get to the Cabooze in time to be assured of a seat for the nine o’clock show.

“Gum,” I said glancing in my car’s rear-view mirror to check what I knew was flawless make-up. When filling my purse, I had forgotten to include gum, and I just had to have it. I’ve got plenty of time to stop. I drew in a deep breath, luxuriating in the exotic fragrance of the classic Prada parfum that I had chosen.

I pulled off Snelling Avenue at a small convenience store to purchase breath-freshening gum. “I’m not out to meet anyone,” I announced to myself, “but I want to be comfortable.” My relationship with Emily was everything I wanted it to be, even though I knew I could never tell her about Jenny.

The last day of October night was frosty and already black. Lights from displays in the Food and Fuel invited me to eat more than I needed, while playing the State-run lotto. “No thank you,” I silently whispered. I had dieted myself into a size twelve and would consider a candy bar only at gunpoint. Besides, I never gambled -- believing I should avoid risk — and I certainly wouldn’t pay good money to add chance to my life.

It was the kind of convenience store that had started out as one of the major franchises, and then suffered through neglect to the point that it had become a stand-alone venture.

The click of my heels on the concrete apron that surrounded the gas pumps caused an anxious grin. I had conquered the world of four-inch perches and loved the way they made me feel and look . . . but out in the real world, I felt inept.

Everything seemed new. Not that bright and shiny new that makes you want to be a world-class consumer. Rather I’d been hit by that inadequate feeling you get when you take everything out of the box and realize its “simple” assembly would tax every bit of your patience and ability . . . and just might not ever happen.

Upon entering the small store, I rapidly assessed just how much danger I had brought on myself. Only two people . . . a run-of-the-mill attendant behind the counter and a customer with his back to me by the cooler, where all the bottles of water are racked for sale. He had just taken out his phone and looked about ready to make a call.

My eyes fell on the magazines next to the front counter. Something secure. My unquenchable thirst for knowledge of the rich and famous caused me to salivate at the cover pictures of everyone who mattered. I was just about to scan a story that promised to tell me all I needed to do to drive my man wild -- when I noticed a look of concern on the face of the young attendant, whose expensive haircut, fine-linen Dunhill shirt, and general demeanor seemed out-of-step with his seedy surroundings.

I concentrated on what the other customer was saying into his phone. He looked like the kind of guy who spent hours grooming his twenty or so hairs.

“. . . now you’re getting it. There’s a robbery in progress at the Food N’ Fuel on Snelling just off Van Buren.” He put his phone in his pocket and looked pleased.

Robbery? I stiffened. Almost immediately I heard a siren, but it was impossible to know how far away it was. . .or if it was coming to our rescue.

The attendant seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, but then a look of resignation crossed over his face. “Please,” he said to the other customer who had moved to the counter. “I don’t know what your game is, but I was just about ready to leave and we don’t have much cash. Not enough for you to. . ..”

“Shut up, asshole.” His voice sounded distant and crazed, like someone who had been treated badly and wanted to do something about it. He wore a yellow windbreaker that had been stained on the elbow of the left sleeve by something evilly-green. “What are you staring at, bitch?”

I looked into his pock-marked cheeks. Not many mugs like that in my neighborhood, or at the bank. It’s the kind of face that screams “bad credit” — especially when combined with his off-the-rack Wal-Mart clothing. He probably sells steel siding.

He shifted his body around toward me and showed me what the counterman had already seen. He was cradling something jungle-green with his two hands. “Uh-huh,” he said proudly. “It’s a hand grenade. It’s the real thing, alright. It’ll blow a hole in this building and everyone in it if I don’t keep the spoon in place.” A strangely-crooked index finger pointed defiantly to the spot where the safety pin had been removed.

I gasped. If he doesn’t hold on tight to that lever-thing, it will go off. It looks authentic and powerful. “Don’t do anything. . ..” I stopped myself before I said “stupid,” wanting to know more about him before I. . ..

“Does this shithole have a backdoor?” He snapped his head away from me toward the man at the counter, who I realized was older and better-looking than I had originally noted.

“It’s fitted with an alarm,” the man said evenly. “If anyone goes out that door after six, an alarm goes off at our security company and the police are notified. Of course, you’ve already taken care of that. Do you really think it was a good idea to call them?” The counterman stopped, looking more confident than I felt.

He must think we can survive this mess. I can still hear that siren, but it doesn’t sound any closer.

“I say no harm/no foul,” he continued.” You put away that grenade and we’ll pretend it never happen. Heck — I’ll even give you the thirty bucks, or so, that’s in the cash register. But, we’ve got to hurry because. . ..”

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “Fucking police. Fuck the fuzz. They’re nothing but a bunch of . . . copsuckers.” He laughed menacingly.

He’s drunk. I counted the steps to the front door. If he let’s go of that grenade, I’ll have about ten seconds to get to safety.

“One point two five seconds,” the robber said disdainfully, as if he had read my mind. “The fuse on this grenade has a delay of 1.25 seconds. It’s set for maxi-fucking-mum fragmentation. Once I leave up -- on this here spoon, even if you have the reaction time of an Olympic sprinter, you’re going to get an unhealthy load of twisted-steel shrapnel blown up your ass.”

He could be lying. He could also be more afraid of dying than I am. I glanced at my hands and balled them into fists to stop their shaking. It’s not likely he’s more frightened than I am. I’m going to cry. I’ve never cried with mascara on before. My eyes swung wildly around the store, looking in vain for a place where I would be safe from a blast. What will I. . ..

“We don’t have much money in the till,” the counterman said again. He kept staring at the cash register and shaking his head slightly, as if it were a foreign object.

“Fuck all the whining about the cash, shithead.” He slammed a wrapped Twinkie on the counter causing the plastic covering to break and the white gook in it to splatter all over a display of Bic cigarette lighters. The robber pointed to the counterman’s nametag. “Is your name really Robert?”

“Bob,” the counterman said, after checking his nametag. “My name’s Bob -- but the corporate people said we have to print the name on our tag exactly like what’s on our social security card.”

“Sounds like your employer’s like them pricks at Outland Mortgage who’s foreclosed on my ma’s home.” He closed his eyes for a second, as if someone had hit him in the back of his head. After they flipped open he turned toward me. “Cutesy women make me want to puke. Have you ever had to work a day in your life, or have a little-bitty problem someone else didn’t fix for you? Or, do you get by just wavin’ that tight little ass of yours in men’s faces?”

I blinked, stunned by the thousand conflicting thoughts fighting their way through my brain.

“You should see your eyes.” He laughed again like a deranged escapee from a mental hospital. “They’re as big as the head of my dick. Your mouth — that ‘o’ your mouth is formin’ gives me an idea.”

I slammed my lips together. “I. . ..” I fought back a tear.

He swung back toward the counter and brandished his grenade.

His nails have been bitten to the quick.

“I gotta call 'Jake,' again,” he said. “We’ll get us an audience of them boys in blue and then we’ll have some fireworks.”

“Can she go?” Bob asked, as if he hadn’t heard that we're about to die. “As long as you don’t seem to care who knows you’re here, can she just leave? I can turn off the outside lights, and then you and I can wait alone for the police to come and kill you, if that’s how you want to play it.”

Come kill him? That’s it. He’s trying to use the police to commit suicide. Wow!

What would I ever do if Bob wasn’t here and I had to deal with all this on my own?

“No-o-o,” the thief said slowly, having given Bob’s suggestion some consideration. “It’s better if she stays. . .but you turn off them lights. That’s a good idea. Turn them lights off and put up the closed sign.”

He punched three numbers into his phone which I assumed were 911. “Hey! Like I already told ya -- the Food and Fuel on Snelling is being robbed. The bad-ass doing it has taken hostages.” He hung up, and then ground his teeth for several seconds.

I bit my lip, after which my tongue searched in vain for a drop of moisture in my parched mouth. If he asks me to speak again, I don’t know if I can get out any words. I longed for one of the bottles of liquid in the glass case, even though its doors were heavily smudged with germ-filled grunge. This place should give complimentary hand sanitizers to every customer when they walk in the door.

What’s taking the police so long?

I flinched when Bob flicked a switch behind the counter and the lights around us in the store went out. He quickly turned them back on and kept trying until the front area around the two pumps had been cast into total darkness. I stared out at my red VW Rabbit and wished to be in it -- far away from my imminent demise.

A large display of Halloween candy that probably wouldn’t be sold reminded me what day it was and . . . how I was dressed. Oh golly! Even if I somehow don’t get blown to bits, the police are going to figure out I’m not really a female and the newspapers are going to have a field day. If it’s a slow news day and someone gets shot, I might even be the lead story on the 10 o’clock news, with Jenny’s face all over TV. Shit! Emily will find out . . . and my parents . . . and my homophobic jerk of a boss.

“What’s your name?” Bob asked our captor, as calmly as if he was about to pop open a beer and watch a Twins’ game.

“What’s it to ya?” He bit the end off the wrapper around a Slim Jim and chomped off about two inches of “mechanically separated chicken.” His left eye pulsed at a rate that went miles beyond a facial tic.

I peered into his face wondering what awful fate had made him my most significant person. He’s on something. Maybe meth. Golly, he doesn’t have a chin. His face melts right into his neck.

Bob smiled.

Smiled?

“Look, buddy. Whatever it is that’s got you pissed off at the world . . . it isn’t going to get any worse if you tell me your first name, or whatever. I know you want to die and the last thing I’d ever want to do is get in the way of that happening -- but there’s a right . . . and a wrong way to go about things.”

“What do you know about death? All you’ve ever done is sell tampons and chocolate to bitches on the rag. Is that it, sweetie? Did you come in here to get a stopper, for your bloody love hole?”

I turned away and felt my face grow hot.

“So. . .. ” Bob asked, again, “what do most people call you?”

He sneered. “Most people call me . . . looking for money I owes them.”

That really cracked him up.

He shoved the rest of the Slim Jim into his mouth.

I’ve never before seen anyone eat a Slim Jim in two bites. Ugh.

“Theesh namesh ish. . ..” He paused and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple looked to be the size of a walnut.

Thank goodness I don’t have much of an Adam’s apple; my throat is actually quite nice.

“Dalton. Them that know me call me Dalton. It was my granddad’s middle name. Samual Dalton Thornbrook. My dad was such an asshole. He could’ve called me Samuel and people would know me by Sam — which is a good name, but shit — no — he had to call me Dalton. What are people going to call me? Dalt? It’s the shits.”

I nodded. Someone called him Dalton instead of Sam and now I’m so scared I want to puke because he’s a mess and probably . . . wants . . . to die.

The first responding cruiser finally screeched to a halt at the edge of the parking lot with its lights glaring on us through the window. It was joined by four more in quick fashion. Several small children dressed in Halloween costumes were shepherded out of harm’s way behind barriers the police had taken from the trunks of their cars.

Their arrival should make me feel better, but the pulsating lights and the anxious shouts as they take their positions just added to my terror.

“Bob!” Dalton screamed to be heard over the sirens. “You go poke your head out the door and tell them police to shut off their fucking lights and to cut the noise. And. . .Bob.” He screwed his mouth around “Bob” to cruelly mock anyone given a name that didn’t make its bearer psychotic. “If’n you jump out that door I’ll leave up on this little pineapple’s spoon and this here young cunt and me will go off into the heavens together -- appearing like Swiss cheese, in front of St. Peter.”

My knees folded, but I caught my balance and managed to stay upright. Like he’s going anywhere near heaven.

“Don’t worry, Dalton,” Bob said, clearly undaunted. “I’ll get them to turn off their lights, and then come right back in.”

John Wayne had said that courage is being scared to death and saddling up anyway — not that I admire the highly judgmental John Wayne all that much. Bob has True Grit.

Bob strolled to the front door like he wasn’t making a decision between saving himself and watching me being pulverized. When he got there, he peered out and somehow communicated enough to get them to turn off their lights. Then he calmly came back to us.

He’s acting like he’s in control, even with a nut holding his life in the palm of his hand.

The landline phone behind the counter rang. Despite all my efforts to control myself -- my bladder failed just enough to dampen my panties in front.

“Answer that, twat.”

I forced my feet to quit anchoring me to one spot, and then worked my way behind the counter. “Hello.” My voice had cracked saying even that.

“Who is this?” Whoever was calling sounded like they meant business.

My mind spun. “Jenny,” I said in a small voice that spoke to my current state.

“Jenny — is anyone in there hurt?” The man on the other end of the line seemed to be strong and anxious about our well-being.

“No,” I squeaked. “Not yet.”

“Tell him about this.”

I turned toward my captor’s insistent voice.

He held the grenade so close I could smell its metallic odor.

I closed my eyes, but its image was etched in my brain. “He’s got a really big grenade; and he’s got it set so that if he lets go of it it’s going to go off. He said it’ll explode just a second after he lets go.” My voice had gone past alto to soprano and on into the area of someone on helium.

Dalton grabbed the phone from me. “Listen-up ass-wipe. I got nothing to live for -- so don’t you needle-dick morons do anything to piss me off.” He switched the phone to his other hand while keeping a grip on the grenade. “All I want is to go out in style. You fuckers can decide if that means with, or without, Jenny and Bob.” He started to hang up, but evidently thought better of it. “Hey dickhead,” he cackled into the phone, “your mom’s the best piece of ass I ever had.”

Apparently super-pleased with himself, he then hung up.

“Oh fuck!” He sank to the floor in a sitting position. “You two need to get down over here where I can watch the both of you. I just told them it’s just you two and me in here. They know what Bob looks like and even a bunch of dumbshits can figure out which one of us is Jenny. When they get bored waiting, they might just decide to have one of their sharpshooters blow my head off and take the chance Jenny was lying or just plain ol’ wrong about the grenade. I’m not quite ready to be shot.”

The silence that followed was dotted by the scrapping sound of men running on pavement and cars coming to a halt much too fast. From where I stood I could see that several fire-trucks and at least one ambulance had joined the fray. I gulped when I realized why the ambulance was there.

“Are you okay?”

I turned and found Bob standing next to me.

He touched my arm . . . and I fell into him longing to be held and protected. His arms encircled me.

Tears gushed out my eyes. We eased down to the floor -- together.

“Ain’t that touching,” Dalton muttered. “Tell me something, Bob. If’n Jenny was a fat-ass and ugly as a wart, would you be so gosh-darn worried about her? What’s the deal, Bob? Are you already planning how you’ll get in a little Halloween-fucking later on tonight?”

I squirmed and put a respectable distance between Bob and me. Although . . . strangely . . . the idea of sex with Bob seemed somehow comforting and normal given the hopelessness of our situation. I couldn’t look Bob in the eye, and for the first time noted his expensive wingtips.

“What is it you want?” Bob asked. “This store doesn’t take in enough money so that it’s worth stealing and you brought the police down on yourself. Are you really trying to get the dicks to off you? What’s your game?”

Dalton swept a box of Tic-Tacs off the shelf behind him -- causing their plastic cases to break open and little white cylinders to roll all over the floor. “What’s my ‘game?’” he barked. “What’s my fucking ‘game?’”

My brain left my body and observed what was happening from somewhere several feet above me.

Dalton brandished his steel fireball. “Does this look like some sort of ‘game’ to you, hotshot?” He shoved the grenade about an inch away from Bob’s nose.

For a second, I prayed that Bob would move with the quickness of a cobra and take the grenade from Dalton -- rendering him nothing but a bad-breathed, nasty man who had made a horrible mistake.

But Bob moved only his mouth — gently turning up the corners to look almost cheerful. “Take it easy, Dalton.” He slowly raised his hand and gently pushed the grenade away from his face. “If we all know what you want, we can all pull on our oars, in the same direction.”

“Like you give a shit about anyone,” Dalton said derisively. “One look at you and all I see is someone who’s totally in love with himself.”

Bob didn’t show any reaction to what Dalton had said.

“You know what you can do with your oars, Bob?” Dalton asked. “You can sitck’em where the sun don’t shine." He picked up a large can of pork and beans from the shelf next to him and threw it at the window. A sheet of glass exploded and crashed to the floor sending shards all over the place where they mixed with Tic-Tac debris. Luckily, the three of us were shielded and didn’t get hit.

The eerie silence after the glass hit the floor washed over my whimpering. My shoulders ached from the tension, and my chest throbbed in reaction to the ceaseless pounding of my heart.

“Bob,” Dalton said as quietly as if he was chatting with his neighbor over the backyard fence about the weather, “you’re a bossy son-of-a-bitch.”

Oh my. For some reason he hates Bob and that makes him even more likely to pull the pin on that thing and kill all of us.

“What makes you think I’m ‘bossy’?” Bob asked casually.

It felt as if a trap door opened in the pit of my stomach, as I assessed how close I was to death.

Dalton barked out a cruel laugh. “Shit man. I’ve spent one whole crappy life under the thumbs of cocksuckers like you. I know bossy, out-of-touch bastards . . . and you’re one. I’ll prove it.”

He thought for a moment, and then his face squeezed into a sardonic grin. “If you’re truly a dude and not some arrogant, bossy prick, you’ll know what the ‘hood means when it talks about a grenade.”

Bob shook his head slowly. “I know, but I’m not sure Jenny needs to hear us talk about things like that.”

“Not sure? Or, are ya bluffin’.”

I don’t want Dalton to lose respect for Bob and then suddenly decide none of the three of us deserve to live. “Bob — please — tell Dalton the street definition of ‘grenade.’”

“Are you sure?” Bob asked.

I nodded. What could be so bad?

“Okay. A grenade is what they call that one ugly girl who hangs with a group of babes.”

“That’s right,” Dalton said, clearly disappointed that he didn’t know more than Bob. He put his face right next to mine. “Ya see, those foxes won’t screw anyone until they’re sure their homely-ass friend is getting hers. Someone has to fuck her — get it? Someone has to jump on the grenade and save everyone else.”

I shuddered at his crassness, while he roared with delight.

The phone rang.

“Answer that, Jenny,” Dalton demanded. “Cunts are good for two things: answerin’ phones and fucking. . .fucking.”

“Hello,” I said, trying desperately to hold back a sob.

“Jenny,” the same voice said that I had talked to before, “is everything okay in there.”

Okay? I’m in a small building with a whack-job and a hand grenade. “Uh-huh, everything’s okay. . .considering.”

“Don’t worry, Jenny. One of the officers out here recognized the perp who’s terrorizing you. He’s a small-time crook, a chronic petty criminal; it’s highly unlikely that he would ever kill anyone. Our guess is he’s just looking for a little excitement and wants to get jailed for the upcoming winter.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s our best estimate. Jenny, is there anything he wants that we can start negotiating . . ..”

Dalton grabbed the phone from me and snarled into it. “On second thought your mom was a lousy fuck.” He hung up again. “What did he say to you?”

Should I tell him? “He just wanted to know if there was anything he could get for us.”

“Like hell. You were on for too long for that to be all. What . . . did . . . he . . . say?”
With each word be pounded the floor next to him with his hand. Each time his palm came up you could see he had embedded glass into it and it was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to feel it.

O - - - kay. “He said you have a record of petty crime.”

“Petty crime!” he shouted. “They’re not taking me serious. Is that it? Did he tell you that I’m not capable of murder?”

I thought for a second -- and then nodded.

He flew into a rage. “I’ll show them.”

“Please. . ..” I begged.

“Don’t them assholes know I’m connected.”

“Connected?” Bob asked. “Do you know people in organized crime?”

Men are such little boys about the mob. It’s like they think the world is exactly like The Godfather.

“Sure,” Dalton bragged. “I know some guys who have killed two, maybe three people, but those cops ain’t giving me any credentials. Bob, is there a fucking knife behind that counter?”

Bob seemed confused by the question. “A knife? I. . .ah. . .I’m not sure.”

“Well look, ya moron.”

Bob carefully moved to the counter avoiding the glass so that he wasn’t cut.

After a short search, Bob held up a boxcutter. “Will this do?”

“Damn straight; bring it here. I’ll show them.”

Bob started back toward us when Dalton stopped him. “Just slide that cutter over to me. You’re not the type of guy I want next to me with something sharp. Come over here doll-face.”

I picked my way through the glass to a spot next to him. He’s going to scar my face!

“Take this here and slice off the little finger of my left hand.”

I backed away from him. The way he said that you’d think he had asked me to pass the salt. I gazed at him peacefully until the full horror of what he had asked me to do hit me. “I — I — I - I can’t.” My stomach roiled.

“You can. Shit anyone can. You’ll have to work a bit to get through the bone, but you can do it.”

I shook my head and sniffed. “Go ahead and blow us up, if that’s what you want.”

“No,” Bob said just barely above a whisper. “Dalton, are you sure cutting off your finger is what you want?”

“Yep --- it is. Sometimes you have to say ‘What the fuck.’ You know what I mean, Bob?”

Bob nodded. “You’re going to have to trust me. I’m going to break your finger so that all Jenny has to do is slice through a little muscle and skin.”

I closed my eyes and hugged myself. Are they both crazy?

“Okay,” Dalton said. “I’m holdin’ unto this here bomb thing with my right hand. If you try anything funny, I’ll drop it like a hot tater.”

I opened my eyes and watched in horror while Bob stepped on Dalton’s left hand and yanked straight back on his smallest finger. The sound that came from Dalton’s hand was like what you hear when you snap a Popsicle stick.

Dalton grunted, but otherwise didn’t even flinch. “Okay sugar tits. . .your turn. Be quick about it, or I’ll see how big a crater this thing can make.”

He slid the boxcutter to me, and I saw that the piece of steel extended from it was a razor blade.

Oddly, it seemed like most of the feeling in my hand had gone away. I managed to hold the cold piece of metal tightly -- but wasn’t at all sure I could actually. . ..

“Cut it, you worthless vag-gina. For once in your life do something worthwhile that doesn’t involve sticking your high heels in the air.”

I took hold of his finger, which had already swelled to twice its normal size and gently placed the blade against it. My hand was wobbling a bit, but with grim determination, I steadied it. I turned my head so as not to watch what I was doing and applied pressure. The amount of gristle involved surprised me because I had to saw at it. I just couldn’t force myself to look at what I was doing.

“There,” Dalton said after the finger came loose, “that hardly even hurt, even with your extempore-cutting.”

Amazingly, I smiled, but when I looked down his hand was gushing blood. I tried to stifle a shriek -- but couldn’t. My purse fell from under my arm where it had been pinned; its contents tumbled out in a heap on the floor. I should put everything back in it, but I know my fingers can’t possibly pick up the small stuff.

Bob somehow guided my tear-filled face into his shoulder. “Dalton, you should let me pack that hand for you with some gauze. There’s bound to be some first-aid stuff on the shelves.”

“Fuck you, Bob, you know-it-all asshole. I’ve seen much more blood than you ever will.” He stood.

I turned around and watched him go behind the counter and find a small, brown, paper bag. He casually picked up the digit I had cut off with two of the remaining fingers on his damaged hand, stuck it in the bag he held in his teeth, and then handed it all to Bob. In the process, the bag had become a bloody mess, as had the floor around us. Most of the left leg of his trousers was saturated with his blood.

“Bob, take this bag and toss it out where the police can get it.”

Bob did as he was told. On the way back he shook his head. “You might want me to take a look at that. I’m a third-year med student. I’ve sewed-up worse in the ER.” He stopped and started to put my things in my purse.

When he spotted my wallet, which was clearly a man’s billfold, he slowed. It had fallen open with my picture I.D. facing up at him. He looked at it and seemed to be checking me — out of the corner of his eye. A second or two passed, before he continued to put everything back into my tote.

“I’m in my rotation at the University Med School,” Bob continued . . . talking to Dalton. “I work this job to help out my uncle, who owns this place. I only come in once a week. I’m working with the transgendered unit this semester, but I still can stop a wound from bleeding a person to death.”

When he said “transgendered” he didn’t look toward me, but he knows.

“The bleeding ain’t that bad,” Dalton argued, “maybe ceptin’ for a pussy. Are you a pussy, Bob?”

Bob laughed. “Okay . . . it probably is too red to be an arterial wound, anyways.”

Bob’s becoming a doctor, but I always thought blood from an artery was bright red. I must have slipped and cut the artery in his wrist when I. . .. I winced when I thought about what I’d done.

He handed me my purse and squeezed my hand.

He’s obviously figured out my sex and is letting me know he’s okay with it. I’m much less frightened than I was.

“I’m fine,” Dalton said, but he suddenly looked tired sliding down and sitting in a crumple with blood steadily draining out of his hand. “I’m so damned thirsty. Damn, all I wanted to do today was get arrested. And look at me. What a fuck up. Shit, I been booked a hundred times by the ‘Jakes’ and never once had to cut off a finger to have it happen.”

Bob bobbed his head. “Start young?”

“You betcha. I was in ‘juve’ at twelve. Jails the only place where I fit in. Everywheres else I’m a fuck up.” He pulled off his jacket to expose a short-sleeved dress shirt.

“That’s so sad,” I said, feeling a lot less afraid of him and more empathetic. The skin at his elbows looks spotted.

“Once my rap sheet had grown longer than my arm. . .I can’t get legit work anymore.” He wheezed as if it was becoming harder for him to get air — and started a shallow, hurried breathing pattern.

“It’s like everyone . . . rushes to criticize me . . . and there ain’t nothin’ . . . I can do about it . . . accept get in more trouble.”

He’s not that different from me. “I know what you mean. I feel like a square peg in a round hole in most social situations, but I would do anything to have more closeness in my life and can’t have one, without going through the other, except it doesn’t ever seem to work out.”

“Fuck ya. Life’s a bitch.”

I ignored his rebuke. “I’m so worried about embarrassing myself that I find it easier to just stay home. But it’s so lonely.” The last I had barely whispered, but everyone heard.

Dalton’s eyes rolled up into his head and his chin hit his chest.

I watched with horror as his right hand relaxed and the grenade slid out. The spoon remained stuck between his thumb and forefinger.

It’s armed!

The grenade rolled noisily toward me over broken glass and white breath pills, but I could -- not -- move.

Suddenly Bob grabbed me and turned me -- so that I would be shielded from the carnage by his body.

An eternity passed while I waited for my world to end.

“It’s a dud,” Bob announced after what seemed like an hour had gone by. He stood, and then helped me to my feet.

We called to the police, who quickly came in and took over the scene.

Four EMTs worked on Dalton simultaneously. Obviously, he was still alive, but barely. After they checked his airways for obstructions they stopped the flow of blood. Then they started an IV, wrapped him in thermal blankets, and elevated his feet. Within three minutes they had him in an ambulance and on his way to an ER.

“We can’t contact the storeowner,” one of the uniformed officers said to Bob. “Do you have a number?”

Bob seemed puzzled. “I don’t know him,” he said after several seconds. “I just started last week. All I know is the guy who hired me, and his name is Carl. I don’t even know his last name.”

Huh? I looked at Bob, but he was staring at the officer and didn’t notice.

He had taken a roll of paper towels from the shelf and shared them with me to wipe Dalton’s blood from our arms, hands, and clothing.

“Look, my name is Bob Carlson,” he stated to the policeman, “and this is Jenny Brandt.

Brandt - that's not my. . .? Oh I get it. He’s going to try to cover for me.

“Jenny’s my girlfriend. We live at 640 Marshall and our phone number is 651-489-1743. Here’s the deal. I’m a med student and I’m pretty sure Jenny could use some attention. If you take her to the ER downtown, it’ll be an hour before anyone can even take her temperature. If I take her over to my hospital in Minneapolis, she’ll get first-rate attention. Okay. But -- I need to get her there quickly.”

The policeman nodded knowingly. “You’re the doc.” He looked at his notepad. “I got your name and phone number and if there’s anything else we need, I guess we can reach you here at the store.”

It’s working. Bob’s got it fixed so we can sneak away without the media making me into a freak show.

“Give me the keys to the car,” Bob said to me while shaking hands with the officer and thanking him. He took the wheel of my VW and slowly pulled away.

“Why didn’t you tell the police that your uncle owns the store?”

“Huh?” Bob looked at me. I thought I saw something strange flicker across his face. “My uncle has a heart condition, and I wanted to tell him what happened in person. Are you really transgendered?”

I nodded, and then realized he was driving and watching the road. “I was born in the body of a man, but I’m pretty sure I’m a woman. At least I think I am.”

He grunted.

“Where are we going,” I asked after a few moments when I noted that we weren’t driving toward Minneapolis.

“I thought we’d get a cup of coffee and try to put some of what’s happened behind us. You look okay; are you feeling fine?”

I felt my arms and concluded they were still safely attached. “You know what? I’m okay. That was quite a night, but I’m okay. What do you suppose caused Dalton to do what he did?”

“He had it right. He’s a fuck-up,” Bob said, surprising me with his language, “an amateur fuck-up. The world seems to be filled with them.”

I looked around and realized we had pulled into a secluded area by White Bear Lake, on the eastern side of St. Paul.

I had fished there with my uncle before we both had figured out I didn’t have any talent for manly things. After I had crossed our fishing lines one too many times, he’d playfully suggested I try knitting. What he didn’t know was my mom had already taught me how to knit . . . and I loved it.

Bob stopped the car and asked me to get out with him, so we could take a moment to collect our thoughts.

Bob wants to get romantic, and I’m not opposed to the idea. I had felt good in his arms and would love to feel like that again. How can I not be attracted to someone as heroic as him?

We were standing next to each other looking up at what had become a starlit night. Instead of making a move on me, he started to chat. I couldn’t tell if he was actually talking to me, or thinking out loud.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Three days ago, I got up in Chi-town and it was just another day. . .you know what I mean?”

Chicago? I nodded amicably.

“I was told to come up here to see a joker named Bob . . . about what he was doing with our money. Some guys are like that. He had a sweet deal and thought he could make it even better by selling our stuff for a tad more and keeping the difference for himself. Guys get funny ideas. I was to come up here and lean on him.”

Lean? Why would a med student have to lean on anyone?

“I got here early and cased the store -- so nothing would go wrong, even though I wasn’t going to ice the guy. Hell, I wasn’t even carrying a Glock. I never do a hit without a Glock, it’s like my signature. I’m 17 and 0 with one of those. I’ve never even been picked up for questioning.”

Ohhhh! I slowly inched away from him.

“You see my line of work is simple. You do your job, and then get away from the scene as fast as you can. That’s rule number one. But, things just didn’t go right. That asshole Bob didn’t take well to my lecture about becoming a straight-up dude. He got smart with me and pulled this big, honking switchblade from in back of the counter. Everyone should know better than to defy me. If everyone would just behave, I wouldn’t have to be so demanding. Before I knew it, I was defending myself from his hostile attack.”

I nodded sympathetically, as if he had just told me he had been shortchanged by the sandwich artist at a Subway.

“Nobody but a circus clown tries to use a knife to off someone. It’s very inefficient. I grabbed his arm and used a counter-move to stick him with his own blade. When I went to leave, a car pulled in outside the store. Dalton got out and started pumping gas into his ancient, rusted-out Lincoln. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose Dalton was looking things over before he would start his little fiasco so he could get arrested for the winter. I didn’t want things to escalate so I stuffed the body in the back, in the freezer. I then locked the door to the freezer, and quickly wiped down the store, before he came in.”

I closed my eyes as I put two and two together and saw that I was going to become his nineteenth victim.

“I figured out that you’re a man under that skirt when I saw your picture in your billfold. I also figured I could use that to get away from the police before they searched the store, found the body, and started taking DNA samples. I was pretty sure they’d find some of my DNA under Bob’s fingernails.” He showed me some small claw marks on his right hand.

I bit my lip. “But you saved me from the hand grenade.”

“Not really. When Dalton stuck that thing in my face I got a good look at it and was 99% sure it wasn’t real. I’m a bit of a hobbyist when it comes to weapons and have about four dozen grenades in my collection.”

Who collects grenades? “You. . .you’re becoming a doctor?”

“Nope. . .once a contractor, always a contractor.”

The man I knew only as Bob pulled a knife from his pocket and exposed its large blade. “I normally leave the weapon at the scene so as not to take the chance of getting nabbed with it in my possession. My Glocks are untraceable. But since it was my first time having done a knife job, I thought I’d keep it. Time to tie up one more loose end. I didn’t bring a Glock to this party, so I’ll have to use this sticker. It’ll be much quicker than that hack job you did on poor ol’ Dalton’s hand.”

This is too much. I consciously struck a helpless pose. During my high school years, Mom had forced me to take self-defense courses to ward off the bullies. I had learned enough martial arts to protect myself from even the largest jerk in my class.

When Bob moved in on me, I deflected his thrust and maneuvered the knife into his waist. At the same time, I managed to trip him so that he fell awkwardly -- landing on the six-inch blade and driving it deep into his stomach. He looked startled, and then his eyes went blank.

“I guess that makes you a circus clown,” I said, looking down at his collapsed body.

Seconds later, after checking for a non-existent pulse, I found my purse and pulled out my phone. “I’ll tell the police I was going to a bar for Halloween and this is all a costume.” I peered in the side mirror at my make-up, which had suffered through my ordeal. For the next five minutes, I calmly repaired my face, until I once again looked the way I always wanted to. . ..

But — they’re going to place me at the other murder site. I need to tell the whole truth.

“Exactly,” I said contentedly, feeling at peace for the first time in hours, or maybe even years. “After what I’ve been through tonight, I’m not going to let a little thing like explaining who I am to the world bother me. I’ll find a job where I can be Jenny. Mom and Emily will just have to deal with it.”

I dialed 911. “Hello. This is Jenny. I need to report a murder. I’m in the woods north of White Bear Lake at. . ..”

The End.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Adjustments
By Angela Rasch

Our dog was on the front lawn in toe-to-toe battle, with the same sprinkler that had driven him crazy, for five years. One time, he dug a hole around it the size of a garbage can lid. That was how he kept sane.

I hadn’t found a way.

Ron had gone to the doctor. It has been the single biggest item on our “to do” list, for weeks. It was an occasion to be reckoned with.

Not that my husband was really ill. For about the last six weeks, he had been experiencing a feeling of warmth, sometimes associated with flushing, that spread over his body and was accompanied by perspiration. His symptoms sounded strangely like the hot flashes I’d been having, for years.

The doctor went through a thorough check-up and a list of questions regarding his diet. Ron long ago gave up caffeine and spicy food. He showed no signs of cancer, or any other disease or illness that might be the cause.

“He gave me this bottle of pills,” Ron said. He held them up for my inspection, demanding a comment, about who knows what. “He said they’re estrogen. He wants me to take estrogen!”

Ron put the “hype” in hypochondriac. He has never really been sick a day in his life -- but took plenty of sick leave. He moaned and sniffled, if his body temperature varied by more than a tenth of a degree.

Conversely, he’d only been to the doctor three times in his life, other than school or life insurance physicals.

I’ve been a good wife, in that I hadn’t hounded him, to go against his beliefs.

“People die in hospitals,” he’d say, “and you only go to the doctor, if you really need to go to the hospital.”

The hot flashes have put the fear of the Lord into poor Ron. How do you live with someone who’s so inconsistent? Hopefully, those pills contain something to pep him up. He’s been so lethargic, without his work to interest him.

I looked at the wristwatch he’d given me for our thirty-fifth anniversary. Five o’clock, time to make our evening meal. I started for the kitchen -- leaving him to fuss over what supposedly ailed him.

“I’ll get dinner,” he said, scooting by me. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

Shoot. In his retirement, he’s taken over my house. I haven’t cooked a real meal, in almost four months. He isn’t all that bad a chef. But I enjoyed cooking and he won’t give his “helping” a rest.

“Sandra, you just sit yourself over there -- so we can talk. I’ll put something together. You fed me for thirty-five years and now it’s my turn.”

The first time he said it, it had sounded charming. The next thousand, or so, times it spilled from his lips, it had started to wear thin.

“Sandra, you’ve washed clothes for me for thirty-five years and now I can do it for a while. Sandra, you’ve vacuumed for me for thirty-five years and now I can clean for a while." Ad nauseum. Which is Latin for “It sucks.”

Ron has no hobbies. His friends are still working and will be for seven to ten more years. It appears he intends to do every household chore.

I’m supposed to do. . . nothing.

I worked for a few years -- until Brian had been born. I had complications and he would be our only child. In 1997, he went to Glacier National Park with his buddies and had an unfortunate meeting with a grizzly. That bear killed a little of both Ron and me, in addition to our Brian.

My best friend, Christine, who I’ve known since high school, told me that any woman, in her right mind, would love to be in my place. BUT. . .what do you do when you’re battling for your rightful position in your home?

“Estrogen,” he moaned. “Isn’t that what you take?”

“Mmmmm.”

“A man shouldn’t have to take estrogen,” he whined. “But if I have to - to stop those darn hot flashes - I suppose I should.”

I buried my head in a National Geographic and intently studied a story about extinct reptiles. Not many of them are extinct -- as it turns out. Reptiles are resilient to change and somehow make it in one era -- and out the other.

“What if I grow breasts?” His eyes were wide, with dismay, at the thought of such a horrible fate.

Good gravy! Can’t he see that I had two of them and manage to make it through the day?

He’s been a good father and provider. Let me rephrase that. He had been a disinterested parent, who hadn’t abused his son. He brought home a slightly under-average salary. I had asked him for a household allowance, which he let his mother set. Through careful spending, I managed to put aside a good deal of money, which I invested, long before people like me were called “day traders.”

Put it this way. We live in a gated retirement community and drive very nice cars. . .and Ron had never earned more than forty thousand a year. We have several million in the bank and seemed bulletproof, through our retirement.

“I’m having enough problems already,” he said. “A man’s testosterone level goes down in his older years.”

“Oh.” Ron’s best friend Dan looks much like he did when he stood next to Ron, at our wedding. Dan’s wife, Nancy, had been a wonderful woman. I was in the room with Dan and her when she died, two years ago. His strength had been admirable throughout the ordeal.

I decided to placate Ron and took a look at the pill bottle. I wasn’t familiar with the name of the drug, but it had to be powerful, since Ron only had to take one pill a week.

“The doctor had a sample of those in his cabinet. He just gave me a whole year’s supply for nothing. Isn’t that something? Just so long as I don’t wake up one day, with a vagina.”

Ron was wearing one of my aprons. He looked appropriate, in that he had left his hair grow out.

“Your hair’s getting a little long, Ron.”

“What do I need to have haircuts for? I don’t have to answer to ‘the man’ anymore. No sir-ree. Can I get you a nice cold glass of ice water, Hon? Your magazine? Some cheese and crackers?”

I got up and circled a date on the calendar. March 5th. Six months in the future.

That was the date they would commit me to an insane asylum -- unless things changed.

***

Three days later, we were about to turn off the lights and go to sleep, when opportunity knocked. Ron had been scratching his crotch, the most masculine thing he’d done in bed, for years.

“Hon, I’m getting a rash.”

He’s been using twice as much soap as needed, in the wash. His skin probably has reacted adversely to it.

What I said next surprised even me. Perhaps, I had accepted my role in his “fate.”

“Uhmmm,” I said. “That happened to me about a year ago. I solved the problem by wearing cotton panties.” Inside, my heart smirked.

“Cotton? My underwear are made of cotton.”

“I know Ron, but you probably should try a pair of my panties, for a few days. They don’t have elastic where you’re getting your rash.”

“Ohhh.” He looked over his glasses at me. “Panties, huh?”

“It’s probably a day or two cure -- thing,” I said. “Your body needs some time to get used to that estrogen. Tell you what,” I jumped out of bed and opened my undergarment drawer, “you wear these until Wednesday, or so. Let me know what you think. We wouldn’t want your skin condition to worsen, or for you to be permanently scarred.” I took care to give him panties that I’d always hand washed. I also made sure they were pink.

“I don’t know,” he said. But my little hypochondriac dutifully donned pink panties.

Four days later, I went to the store and bought him a dozen pink panties of his very own. Several were covered with little purple and green flowers. “I wouldn’t even chance going back to your kind of panties -- until after you’re off that estrogen,” I commented.

“But that’s a year from now,” he wailed.

Goodness gracious, what a tragedy!

I replaced our detergent with a milder brand that allowed him to use a generous amount, without bothering his skin. Not knowing the difference he continued to wear the sissified panties without argument.

***

That next weekend, he had trouble turning the mattresses and had strained his pectoralis major. Later that night, he sat up in bed. “My chest hurts.”

Alert the media!

His effeminacy hadn’t been a difficulty when we lived, in our previous home. It had been a larger home, on a four-acre wooded lot. At that time, Ron liked to say the four greatest technological advancements in our lifetime were the chain saw, power washer, woodchipper, and snow thrower. Since the association where we now lived, did all of our yardwork, he had traded his tan work-clothes and tools for an apron and a vacuum, food processor, washer, and dryer.

“Oh,” he bravely stated, “it’s probably not a heart attack. It’s more of a dull ache when I move too fast.”

Once again, something came over me. I just had to play with him. “Where does it hurt?”

“Ahhh. It’s painful all over, but the worst is here. . .and here.” He pointed to both sides of his chest.

“Omigosh! Omigosh! I faked minor terror.

“What! What!” He wouldn’t be able to go to sleep with all the adrenaline I’d caused to flow through his body -- just then.

“You know what it is?” I asked, just to get him to beg.

“Tell me, please. Please tell me. Please.”

Enough. “It’s that estrogen. You said it yourself. It was only a matter of time, before you grew breasts.”

“Nooooo.”

I nodded slowly.

“Nooooo.”

“Uh-huh. I noticed how much you’ve grown when you were wearing the t-shirt that says, ‘Dad’s Make the Best Lovers.’” I’d given him that shirt hoping for a self-fulfilling prophecy, that never came into fruition. The truth was there hadn’t been any change to his chest.

“But . . . boobs?”

“Poor baby,” I said. If I had a dime for every time I’ve said “poor baby” to that sap, I’d have millions, which we do, so what’s the use? “Tomorrow I’ll fix it for you.”

“How?” He asked softly.

“A bra, of course.”

“Nooooo.”

“Poor baby.”

The next day I bought him several padded 38B bras that took the fat he’d always had on his chest and made little titties, to fill the cups.

***

From that day forward, it was just one thing after another. Each time I saw an opening, I used his estrogen intake as an excuse to heighten his femininization.

My guilt was mitigated by the knowledge that he couldn’t have been as comfortable as he appeared, without his own approval.

A blemish on his face led to nightly skincare -- using Oil of Olay products. That escalated with other blemishes to foundation, translucent powder, and then blush. Mr. Gullible would buy anything I said, as long as I somehow made him think it was because of the estrogen.

He soon was wearing a camisole to protect his delicate skin from his rough clothing, clothing that was traded within weeks, for softer things from the women’s department.

All the while, he continued to clean the house and make all the meals because, “Sandra, you’ve ‘done’ for me for thirty-five years; and now I can ‘do’ for you for a while.”

The only signs he gave of discomfort, with his new role, was ordering our groceries delivered, over the computer, rather than going to the store, and continually putting his friend Dan off -- when Dan tried to get together with him.

It was absolutely amazing what the power of suggestion was doing, to little Ron. I had been bored out of my skull. He’d provided an intriguing game for me to play.

***

“The doctor called today,” I lied. His doctor hadn’t called. Lying had become part of my daily arsenal, to lead little Ron to his destiny, much like moisturizer had become part of little Ron’s nightly beauty ritual. I excused my duplicity as necessary, in the process that was obviously making little Ron so very happy.

“My doctor, I hope,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was happy that I wasn’t ill, or because he was receiving a new medical dilemma, to dither about.

I have to make sure my acting is perfect on this one. “Your doctor is concerned about you.”

“Uh.”

That got his attention. A concerned doctor isn’t anything Ron wants any part of.

I picked at the meal he’d prepared. I did that every so often, so that he wouldn’t get complacent. His culinary skills had gotten much better. If I showed any kind of subtle displeasure, he worked all the harder the next time. “I told him about all the problems you’ve been having.”

“You didn’t tell him how. . ..”

“I told him exactly what remedies you’ve come up with to resolve each problem.”

“But, it was you who. . ..”

“He thought you were doing exactly the right thing, each time.”

“He said that?”

I struck a scout’s honor pose. Ron had been an Eagle Scout and took that kind of thing quite seriously. I had made love to a scout, in a tent in his backyard, when I was thirteen.

“Then I guess. . ..”

“He said you’re in deep trouble.” I scowled.

“What?” His eyes were the size of the hubcaps on a ‘57 Chevy.

I loved the spacious backseats, in those cars.

“Did he say why?” Ron asked.

I had set the hook. “He said your body is going to get confused, if it isn’t already. Have you noticed any problems, lately?”

Asking Ron if his body had health problems was like inquiring if Johnson and Johnson had any Band-Aids.

“My muscles have been a little sore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And my eyes have been watering.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no???”

“Oh no. He mentioned that as a possible next step in your troubles.”

“What did he say I have to do to stop the ailment?”

“Dresses”

“Dresses?”

“The more feminine, the better,” I said with gravity.

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t.” He folded his arms across his little titties encased in his bra.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t.”

He probably would have stomped his foot had he been standing, but he was perched on a stool going through his cookbooks trying to determine what error he’d made fixing the meal I’d found so distasteful.

“Ronnie, you’re wearing panties, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a bra, right?” I fixed him in my gaze.

“That’s right -- and all sorts of other things and make-up, too,” he whimpered, “But a man has to have limits.”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“????”

“He said any man in your situation would be horribly conflicted. The medical term for your ailment is cognitive dissonance. Because you have to take the estrogen, you need to eliminate your internal conflict and make yourself completely feminine.”

“Completely feminine?”

“Or else.” I shook my head to let Ronnie know that “or else” would not be good. It had been the universe, who had assigned his position in life, not me.

The next day I bought him a complete wardrobe and stocked his bedroom with a dozen enchanting perfumes.

“Did you say that’s ‘my’ bedroom?” He was wearing an outfit that I thought made him look exactly like Donna Reed, in the fifties.

I’d searched all over for it. He always wore a frilly apron, over his pretty clothes, so that they didn’t get “ruined.”

“Ronnie, Honey. All the lotion and perfume you have to use now would give me a migraine, if I have to sleep, in the same room as you. You don’t mind, do you? I can make my own bed, if making two beds is too much for you.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “Sandra, you’ve made beds for me for thirty-five years and now I’ll make two beds for a while.”

***

“It’s my turn to host the dessert club, next month,” I said.

His face turned white. For the last six weeks, he had dressed completely as a woman. He hadn’t left the house even one time, so I was the only one who had seen him. His total transformation had not always been certain, but it had been most likely.

“I could get in the car and go for a long drive,” he offered.

“What if the police had to pull you over, for something?”

“Ohhh? I’ll just stay in my bedroom.” His hands were shaking.

“Nonsense, little Ronnie.” I shook my head. “It’s high time you get over your shyness. What you’re going through is as natural as putting Neosporin on a cut. There isn’t one girl in my dessert club, who’s going to think zilch -- about how you look.”

“You think?”

I put my hand on my hip and scratched my chin with the other. “Now that you mentioned it -- there are a few things that would bother them.”

“Like what?”

“The way you stand, sit, and walk for starters. When you wear a dress, you need to look a certain way.”

“Ohhh.”

“In fact, have you been feeling okay, lately?”

He listed a number of minor ailments that the average person would never, ever notice.

“I was worried about that.” I knitted my brow to express my deep concern. It wasn’t easy leading this horse to water. But once he was there, he would always drink.

“Worried?”

“Uh-huh. You know what the doctor said about becoming completely feminine. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve had so many ailments. It’s a wonder you’re not on your death bed. Conflicts — you’ve got to avoid them.”

“Conflicts?”

“You know — the way you dress and how you walk, talk, sit, stand, and your voice. What kind of books and magazines have you been reading?”

“Magazines?”

I sighed and shook my head. “Why do I even bother?”

“Did I do something wrong?” He looked totally distraught. Not only had he placed his health in jeopardy, with neglect -- but in the process he had apparently, displeased me. For almost anyone else, he would be the perfect mate. He was totally devoted. BUT — he wasn’t happy in his devotion and it appeared I could deal with that.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” I allowed.

That very moment we entered into a serious round of education to improve “Veronica.” She dived into yoga and other exercises to help her body to express itself in a feminine manner -- and to enrich her appearance. It would have been just wrong, to continue to call her “Ron.”

Prior to the dessert club meeting, I took every member to an individual lunch and explained what I had done to Ron. They all thought it was a remarkable approach to husbandry and vowed to help me. I assured them that all they had to do was act as if Veronica was one of us, and not express anything other than total acceptance of her as a female.

Which they did.

***

“Dan called,” I said. “He wants to know if I killed you and stuck your body in the freezer.”

“Did he say that?” she giggled. Ron’s hair had been almost jet black, but “the doctor” and I had made her bleach it. Almost everything she wore was pink and short. She still managed to keep the house immaculate and had mastered cooking, so that I looked forward to each meal, with fascination. She had been reading nothing but romance novels for weeks.

“He wants to hold a surprise party, for your birthday.” I waited for Veronica to break down, or throw a fit.

Instead, she smiled. “When?” She obviously felt confident in her appearance and was ready, for the next step.

I had been prepared to play “doctor” one last time -- but there was no need. “I’ll tell him no surprise party, Veronica. We’ll just have a regular party. He can be the bartender.”

“That sounds nice. I could make. . ..”

She went on and on planning the menu, while I made a few plans, of my own.

Later that night, I called my garden club members, again. Each of them was to bring to the party a “most likely new spouse” for Veronica.

***

The day of the party, I took Veronica to my salon and treated her to a complete package. She got up the nerve to shop for and purchase her own outfit. Veronica looked as pretty and confident as she ever had -- when we welcomed our first guest.

It had been a long road from conception to completion.

Dan took one look at her in her chiffon ruffled shirtdress and then dragged me into my bedroom to talk. He locked the door behind him to assure our privacy, before demanding, “How long has this been going on?”

“Almost a year,” I sniffed and then collapsed, into his manly arms. Thirty minutes later, we rejoined the party having consummated the end to over three decades of frustration.

All of my friends had lived up to their word. Veronica was surrounded by men who were fascinated by her.

***

The phone dragged me away from our new hot tub, an addition that Dan had recommended.

“Hello, doctor,” I said, looking out at Dan snacking on hors d'oeuvres. We would later enjoy a sumptuous banquet that I’d been preparing all day. I couldn’t wait to get back in the tub to let the jets bubble water across my deliciously stiff muscles — residue from a delightful week of spring cleaning.

“How is Ron doing?” The doctor asked.

“Ron?” I stumbled. “Ahh . . . ‘Ron’ is just fine.”

“He never came back for a follow-up appointment. I guess those placebos I gave him did the trick.”

“Placebos?”

“Your husband is a bit of a hypochondriac. I keep a supply of placebos for people like him. They’re harmless and men like Ron seem to love them.”

“Oh.”

After the phone call, I checked my calendar. It was three days to my wedding and just over three months, before Veronica’s.

We had agreed upon an amicable divorce. In fact, we were going to be each other’s maid-of-honor.

Dan moved in with me and Veronica is living with her Sammie, who loves her just the way she is.

I’ve hired a maid to take Veronica’s place. That and everything else just had to be done. Nothing could be truer than what my grandmother often said, “A place for everything, and everything in its place.”

I’ve already realized Dan is never going to give me an orgasm. Sammie and I have been meeting for sex on the side and I’ll enjoy ruining Veronica’s marriage -- just a few months from now.

The End of Part One

Our dog stared out at the sprinkler, in the middle of our yard, and dreamed about what he would do, if he only got the chance. We never allowed him out of the house when the sprinklers were on, because he’d once dug a hole the size of a garbage can lid around that particular sprinkler head. His wagging tail indicated that he was perfectly content waiting. And, so was I.

Plotting his conquest kept my dog sane.

I haven’t found a way.

My recent trip to the doctor had been the single biggest item on our “to do” list for weeks. Not that I was really ill. For about the last six weeks, I had been experiencing a feeling of warmth, sometimes associated with flushing. It spread over my body and was accompanied by perspiration.

My symptoms sounded strangely like the hot flashes Sandra had been having for the last eighty gazillion years. I went to the doctor because I can’t believe I care enough about Sandra, to have empathetic hot flashes.

Even though, I had never really been sick a day in my life, I had taken plenty of sick leave. I would moan and sniffle, if my body temperature varied by more than a tenth of a degree. It was the only way I could get any valid attention, from my life partner.

I’d only been to the doctor three times in my life, other than school or life insurance physicals. Any caring wife would have hounded me, to have regular checkups.

“People die in hospitals,” she would say, “and you only go to the doctor, if you need to go to the hospital.”

My doctor went through a thorough check-up and a list of questions regarding my diet. I had long ago given up caffeine and spicy food. I showed no signs of cancer, or any other disease or illness that might be the cause.

Sandra and I were sitting in our living room reading the paper.

“He gave me this bottle of pills,” I said. I held them up for her inspection, demanding a comment I doubted was forthcoming. “He said they’re estrogen. He wants me to take estrogen!”

Sandra lives in a world, about two inches in front of her nose. I’m not really sure why I told her the pills were estrogen. I suppose I thought it would get a rise out of her. It’s been years since we’ve had anything resembling a real conversation, in which one or both of us wasn’t lying or, at least, presenting a false reality.

Hopefully, those pills contained something that will pep me up. I’ve been lethargic ever since I retired and been faced with seemingly endless days, living with her.

She was looking at the expensive wristwatch I’d wasted on her for our thirty-fifth anniversary.

Five o’clock, time to make our evening meal. I bolted for the kitchen. “I’ll get dinner,” I said, scooting by her. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

In my retirement, I’d taken over the house. She hadn’t cooked a real meal, in almost four months. Let me take that back. Her cooking reflected her putrid soul. She tortured food, until it flopped down on our plates, in rancid resignation. We can barely eat my fare. But I’m getting better every day and already can cook rings around her.

“Sandra, you just sit yourself over there so we can talk. I’ll put something together. You fed me for thirty-five years. Now it’s my turn.”

I’d been using the same line to take over every other household chore. “Sandra, you’ve washed clothes for me for thirty-five years. Now I can do it for a while. Sandra, you’ve vacuumed for me for thirty-five years. Now I can clean for a while.” I’m simply tired of living in filth and watching my clothes get ruined by her incompetent laundering. The lengthy list of domestic duties she can’t accomplish effectively is as long as my enumerations of justifications for revenge, for the life she’s wasted, for me.

I had been offered a retirement package I couldn’t refuse, nearly six years before I wanted to retire. I have no hobbies. My friends are still working and would be for seven to ten more years. Basically, I have no life.

I intended to do every household chore. She was to do -- nothing.

I’d heard about people who retire and die, within months. That was my plan for her, unless something better came along. I meant to ease her along toward a cardiac arrest.

To supplement that effort, I’d developed a devilishly simple secondary plan — I would kill her with kindness - which was both lethal and legal. I would wait on her hand and foot, until the mortician carried her away, in a pine box.

She’d worked for a few years -- until Brian had been born. Because of her complications during his birth, he had been our only child. In 1997, he went to Glacier National Park with his buddies and had an unfortunate meeting with a grizzly. That bear killed a little of both Sandra and me, in addition to our Brian.

At first, we’d maintained the marriage for the sake of our son. Later, the amount of pure hate I had for that woman kept me near enough to her, to inflict revenge.

My best friend, Dan, thought the world of Sandra. He said any man in his right mind would love to be in my place. BUT. . .what did he really know about her?

“Estrogen,” I moaned. “Isn’t that what you take?”

“Mmmmm.”

“A man shouldn’t have to take estrogen,” I whined. “But if I have to - to stop those darn hot flashes - I suppose I should.”

Then I had a decisive moment, one of those flashes of brilliance that separates the weak, from the powerful. If I play my cards right, I’ll drive Sandra, to her grave, within months.

If there’s one thing Sandra despises -- it’s an effeminate man. She’s totally femophobic. Throughout our marriage, if I wore a shirt or pair of slacks that were a color that hadn’t been brought over by the Puritans, Sandra would call me a “fairy.”

Singing the National Anthem at a ballgame brought her wrath down on me, for “acting like a sissy in front of people.” It was okay for women to sing, “But men should preserve proper decorum.”

I would find ways to act like a complete sissy -- and it would kill her.

She buried her head in a National Geographic and intently studied a story about extinct reptiles. Reptiles are resilient to change and somehow make it in one era and out the other.

Just like Sandra.

“What if I grow breasts?” I forced my eyes wide, as if I was dismayed at the thought of such a horrible fate.

Her head flinched.

That hit her where it hurt. My plan is set in concrete. I’ll find a way to act so feminine that she will expire.

She’ll turn black and curdle, just like milk or cottage cheese. At that point, I’ll set her out on the curb and the big blue truck will pick her up with its mechanical arms and haul her away to the landfill.

I had been a good father and an excellent provider. Even though she had done everything she could, to turn our son against me, I had remained calm and brought home a weekly paycheck.

She had demanded a household allowance.

Through miserly spending, she’d raked off a good deal of that money, which she invested in an account I wasn’t supposed to know about. Often, I had to spend other money, to have even a minimal amount of food in the house -- or to do much-needed maintenance.

Her investments barely broke even. Once I saw what she was up to and how incompetent she was at managing money, I put all the raises and bonuses I got, after that, straight into a retirement account. We had nearly three million dollars in the bank and seemed bulletproof through our retirement — especially after I arrange for her to die young from shame and apoplexy.

She’ll never divorce me and take a chance on losing her share of our money.

“I’m having enough problems already,” I said, carrying on my look of despair. “A man’s testosterone level goes down, in his older years.”

“Oh,” was all she said. It was amazing that she’d missed another opportunity to tell me that she never has had an orgasm with me.

Before Sandra and I met, I had spent a night with one of the women in the office. Linda was full-figured and blondish-cute. I had been the first in the office to sleep with her, but not the last. She organized her version of a company welcome-wagon, which eventually topped a dozen willing sexual partners -- who sat in cubicles around her.

Then she compared all of us. I had been ranked as Linda’s best lover.

On another occasion, I had been in a bar when an old girlfriend and her new husband sat down with me. She drank a bit too much and suddenly stated to him, “You could learn a thing or two about what to do in bed, from Ron.”

And yet, somehow it was my fault that Sandra never fully enjoyed our lovemaking. She would sigh and say, “That was . . . okay.” As the years went on, she expanded her attacks upon my “inadequacies” by suggesting that I look into products she saw advertised in magazines and on television that promised an increase in the size of my penis - or better performance. Eventually, I gave up sex with her entirely.

I looked across the kitchen. She probably was thinking about Dan, which she did quite often -- and never failed to tell me about in some way. He pretty much looked like he had -- when he stood next to me at our wedding. He was a metro-sexual long before it was popular. He worked out and was fairly into himself.

Dan’s wife, Nancy, had been a wonderful woman. I’d been in the room with Dan and her when she died two years ago. His strength had been admirable throughout the ordeal, almost to the point that I wondered if he really loved his wife.

Sandra finally took a look at the pill bottle. Obviously, she wasn’t familiar with the name of the drug, but I was. I knew exactly what they would - and wouldn’t - do.

“The doctor had a sample of those in his cabinet,” I said. “He gave me a whole year’s supply for nothing. Isn’t that something? Just so long as I don’t wake up one day with a vagina.”

I was wearing one of her aprons, which looked appropriate. I had left my hair grow out, because I no longer had to answer to “the man.” My long hair would blend right into the plan I was formulating.

“Can I get you a nice cold glass of ice water, Hon?” I asked. “Your magazine? Some cheese and crackers?” I added a little lilt to my voice, to get under her skin.

She got up and circled a date on the calendar. March 5th. Six months in the future.

She didn’t say what that date was, but I knew what it meant to me.

That was the date they would commit me to an insane asylum — if my plan didn’t work.

***

Three days later, we were about to turn off the lights and go to sleep, when opportunity knocked. I had been scratching my crotch. More than likely I had used too much soap, in the laundry. “Hon, I’m getting a rash.”

What she said next surprised me so much, that I almost missed my chance.

“Uhmmm,” she said. “That happened to me about a year ago. I solved the problem by wearing cotton panties.”

Inside, my heart smirked. “Cotton? My underwear are made of cotton.” Could it be possible that she’s trying to do something to trick me?

“I know Ron, but you probably should try a pair of my panties, for a few days. They don’t have elastic where you’re getting your rash.”

Damn! She’s trying to make me into a woman! “Ohhh.” I looked over my glasses at her. “Panties, huh?”

“It’s probably a day or two cure -- thing,” she said. “Your body needs some time to get used to that estrogen. Tell you what,” she jumped out of bed and opened her drawer, “you wear these until Wednesday, or so. Let me know what you think. We wouldn’t want your skin condition to worsen, or for you to be permanently scarred.”

They were pink. She almost always wore plain white. She was obviously trying to make me feminine.

If that’s her plan — well — game on! We’ll see how far she pushes it and I’ll go right along with her. I don’t really give a damn and her friends will think she’s nuts, for living with me. They all hate her, anyhow.

“I don’t know,” I said to play along, but I dutifully donned her pink panties.

Four days later, she went to the store and bought me a dozen pink panties of my very own. Several were covered with little purple and green flowers.

There’s little doubt what she’s up to.

“I wouldn’t even chance going back to your kind of panties -- until after you’re off that estrogen,” she commented.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she really cared. “But that’s a year from now,” I wailed, for effect.

That Saturday, she replaced our detergent with a milder brand that allowed me to use a generous amount, without bothering anyone’s skin.

***

That next weekend, I slipped while turning the mattresses and strained my pectoralis major. Later that night, I sat up in bed and said. “My chest hurts.”

Her eyes brightened. She appeared ready to raise the stakes.

I couldn’t have played this game in our previous house. It had been a larger home on a four-acre wooded lot. At that time, I liked to say the four greatest technological advancements in our lifetime were the chain saw, power washer, woodchipper, and snow thrower. My real love for using those power tools rose from their ability -- to drown out her screeching voice.

Since the association where we lived now, does all of our yardwork, I had traded in my tan work-clothes and tools for an apron and a vacuum, food processor, washer, and dryer. All of which I used, to finally make our home less than a pigsty, which was how she had kept it.

“Oh,” I said, “it’s probably not a heart attack. It’s more of a dull ache when I move too fast.”

She smiled, although she tried to hide it. I prepared myself for more of her B.S.
“Where does it hurt?” she cooed.

“Ahhh. It’s painful all over, but the worst is here. . .and here.” I pointed to both sides of my chest.

“Omigosh! Omigosh!” She faked minor terror.

“What! What!” I did my best to look like I was worried sick.

“You know what it is?” she asked, trying to get me to beg.

I did exactly what she wanted. “Tell me, please. Please tell me. Please.”

“It’s that estrogen. You said it yourself. It was only a matter of time before you grew breasts.”

“Nooooo.” I deserve an Oscar, or at least a “Femmy.”

She nodded slowly.

I delivered my line, again. “Nooooo.”

“Uh-huh. I noticed how much you’ve grown when you were wearing the t-shirt that says, ‘Dad’s Make the Best Lovers.’” She’d given me that shirt hoping to entice me back into another attempt at love-making that she could critique. She’s frozen from the waist down and I want no more of it. The truth is, if there had been any change to my chest it would have been a miracle.

“But . . . boobs?” ACTING!

“Poor baby,” she said.

If I had a dime for every time she’d said “poor baby” to me, I’d have millions, which we do, so what was the use?

“Tomorrow, I’ll fix it for you,” she said.

I can hardly wait to see what she was going to do to me next. “How?” I asked softly.

“A bra, of course.”

Of course, a bra. “Nooooo.” Better Acting! I’ll see her bra and raise it by a breast-form -- or two.

“Poor baby.”

The next day she bought me several padded 38B bras that took the fat I’d always had on my chest and made little titties to fill the cups.

The game was afoot.

***

From that day forward, it was just one thing after another. Each time she saw an opening, which I made sure were plentiful, she used my estrogen intake as an excuse to heighten my femininization. It galled me to think she thought I was that easily manipulated, but her ego was such that she never suspected that I was actually playing her.

A blemish on my face led to nightly skincare -- using Oil of Olay products. That escalated with other blemishes to foundation, translucent powder, and then blush. Each time she made some flimsy excuse that mystically related to the estrogen pills.

At her suggestion, I was soon wearing a camisole to protect my “delicate skin” from my rough clothing . . . clothing that she systematically traded, within weeks, for softer things from the women’s department.

All the while I continued to clean the house and make all the meals -- being careful to state, “Sandra, you’ve ‘done’ for me for thirty-five years; and now I can ‘do’ for you for a while.”

Sandra delighted in taking pictures of me. She evidently thought it would embarrass me to see how ridiculous I looked. In fact, the photos gave me opportunities to look for visual flaws in my feminine appearance, flaws I quickly corrected.

One of the flaws had been my weight. Women are smaller than men. To project the image of a woman, I had to go on a diet, which I found to my liking.

I also started a regimen of stretching and yoga. Sandra saw the results I was achieving and began daily workouts at her gym, which gave me three to four hours a day on my own, when she was out of the house.

I used that time to scour the internet for beauty tips and other ideas.

I also used the internet to order groceries delivered rather than going to the store, so I didn’t have to leave the house looking so odd.

The only person who seemed to miss me was my “friend” Dan, who kept calling to get together. I found one excuse after another not to see him.

It was absolutely amazing what the power of suggestion was doing to Sandra. She had been entirely sucked in. I had been bored out of my skull. She’d provided an intriguing game, for me to play.

***

“The doctor called today,” she lied.

What a moron. I live in the same house and would have heard the phone ring. Lying had become part of her daily arsenal to lead me to what she evidently thought was my destiny, much like moisturizer had become part of my nightly beauty ritual.

“My doctor, I hope,” I said. It would have been all right by me had her doctor called to tell her she was succumbing, to the stress my plan was creating.

“Your doctor is concerned about you,” she added.

“Uh.” This is going to be good. She obviously wants to up the ante. I smiled at her. One of the tips I’d learned online was to smile all the time, which I did. Not just my lips. My whole face was lit up in a “radiant” smile, during all waking hours.

She picked at the meal I’d prepared. She did that every so often, to get my goat.

My culinary skills had gotten much better. Whether or not she enjoyed my efforts meant little to me.

“I told him about all the problems you’ve been having,” she said.

“You didn’t tell him how. . ..” How cute she is when she’s being her evil best! Like a Disney villain.

“I told him exactly what you’ve come up with, to resolve each problem.”

“But, it was you who. . . .”

“He thought you were doing the right thing each time.”

“He said that?”

She struck a scout’s honor pose. I had been an Eagle Scout and took that kind of thing quite seriously. She had screwed George in his scout shirt, in a tent in his backyard, when she was thirteen. She had told him that she loved a man in uniform.

“Then I guess. . ..” I gave her an opening.

“He said you’re in deep trouble.” She scowled.

“What?” I made my eyes the size of the hubcaps on a ‘57 Chevy. Sandra had loved the backseats of those cars. That’s where Brian had been conceived, just before our shotgun wedding. “Did he say why?”

She seemed ready to set the hook. “He said your body is going to get confused, if it isn’t already. Have you noticed any problems lately?”

Part of her scheme seemed to be to convince me that I would become ill, if I didn’t follow her every advice, so I made up some things.

“My muscles have been a little sore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And my eyes have been watering.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no???”

“Oh no.”

“What did he say I have to do?” I asked. I was curious what her fictitious doctor had prescribed.

“Dresses”

“Dresses?” Wow, she’s serious in her intent.

“The more feminine, the better.”

“He said that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t.” I folded my arms across my chest. It sounded interesting, but I couldn’t cave too quickly.

“Can’t?”

“Can’t.” I was perched on a stool going through my cookbooks trying to find a recipe that I could prepare that would make her deathly ill, without putting any suspicion on me.

“Ronnie, you’re wearing panties, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a bra, right?” She fixed me in her gaze. Her eyes were dark and clouded with her personal bile.

“That’s right -- and all sorts of other things and make-up, too,” I whimpered, “but a man has to have limits.” My only limit will be her death. Until that wondrous day arrives, this game has no boundaries.

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“????”

“He said any man in your situation would be horribly conflicted. The medical term for your ailment is cognitive dissonance. Because you have to take the estrogen, you need to eliminate your personal conflict and make yourself completely feminine.”

“Completely feminine?” Her ruse would be more believable if she hadn’t mispronounced dissonance.

“Or else.” She shook her head, which was to let me know that “or else” would not be good.

My hate for her reached a new level as my resolve to become as feminine as possible became the focal point of my life.

The next day, she took my measurements and went out on her own to buy me a complete wardrobe. She came home loaded down with purchases and directed me to put them away in our spare bedroom in drawers and the closet. Some of the dresses bordered on costumes, but there were others that I found very sweet. I couldn’t wait to wear them. When I held them up against myself, in front of a mirror they looked enchanting.

In my race to drive her insane, I’ve stumbled across a personal need.

“I didn’t know what perfumes you would prefer,” she said, “so I bought you a dozen different kinds - complete with powders and bath oils.”

I tested them on paper and found each to be something I would definitely use. I had been using Sandra’s White Shoulders. The swan logo seemed to match the “Ugly Duckling” process I was going through.

“You can put all your perfume, in your bedroom, with your clothes.”

“Did you say that’s ‘my’ bedroom?” I was wearing one of my new outfits. It made me look exactly like Donna Reed, in those old films. She had done my hair in a fifties style. I was wearing pearls and full make-up. She must have worn herself out finding such outdated clothing.

I had developed the habit of wearing a frilly apron over my pretty clothes, so that they didn’t get “ruined” which added to my Eisenhower-era look.

“Ronnie, Honey. If I had to sleep in the same room as you, all the lotion and perfume you have to use now would give me a migraine. You don’t mind -- do you? I could make my own bed, if making two beds is too much for you.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Sandra, you’ve made beds for me for thirty-five years; and now I’ll make two beds for a while.”

But, in a way, I did mind. She had purchased exquisite silk nightgowns for me to wear to bed each night. I loved to curl up next to her imagining how nauseous I was making her. Surprisingly, the gowns seemed to give me a much better night’s sleep.

The only negative side-effect was the recurring dreams, in which I was courted by various men and bedded for their pleasures. Several mornings, I had awoken to find that I had had a nocturnal emission, something that hadn’t happened since puberty.

***

“It’s my turn to host the dessert club next month,” she said.

Despite having mentally prepared myself, for this moment, I felt dread sweep through my body. It had only been a matter of time, before she would want to take my humiliation public. For the last six weeks, I’d dressed completely as a woman. I hadn’t left the house, even one time. Up until that time, the only person who had seen me was the Amazon man.

The world was only a mouse click away. The undergarments she had given me were nothing compared to the wonderful things I found for myself on the many websites I shopped. I augmented and supplemented all of my feminine needs, with things the hunky Amazon man delivered, on almost a daily basis.

“I could get in the car and go for a long drive,” I offered, knowing she wouldn’t go for it.

“What if the police had to pull you over for something?”

“Ohhh? I’ll just stay in my bedroom.” My hands were shaking, with excitement. I really wanted to test my appearance on other people. I also wanted to humiliate Sandra, in front of her friends.

“Nonsense, little Ronnie.” She shook her head. “It’s high time you get over your shyness. What you’re going through is as natural as putting Neosporin on a cut. There isn’t one girl in my dessert club that’s going to think zilch, about how you look.”

“You think?”

She put one hand on her hip and scratched her square chin with the other. “Now that you mentioned it, there are a few things that would bother them.”

“Like what?” I had studied myself in the mirror endlessly. The pictures she took showed no flaws that I could detect. My days were filled with becoming the perfect housewife. If I wasn’t thinking about how to better take care of the house, I was working on making myself all the more delightfully feminine.

Or I was daydreaming about the Amazon man.

My nightly dreams about sex with a variety of men had spilled over into the day. I had actually sighed when “Stan” handed me my package filled with Sephora cosmetics, yesterday. There’s something about a man in uniform.

“The way you stand, sit, and walk - for starters,” she persisted. “When you wear a dress, you need to look a certain way.”

“Ohhh.” I haven’t even thought about those things. Does “Stan” know of my birth sex?

“In fact, have you been feeling okay, lately?”

Once again, I made up a list of minor ailments that the average person would never, ever notice. My mind was racing with a list of all the things I needed to do, too. I couldn’t wait to get online and research ways to train myself to look, act, and sound much better.

“I was worried about your health.” She knitted her brow, to communicate her deep concern.

It amazed me that she never once suspected I was putting one over on her. “Worried?”

“Uh-huh. You know what the doctor said about becoming completely feminine. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you’ve had so many ailments. It’s a wonder you’re not on your death bed. Conflicts — you’ve got to avoid them.”

“Conflicts?”

“You know — the way you dress and how you walk, talk, sit, stand, and your voice. What kind of books and magazines have you been reading?”

“Magazines?”

She sighed and shook her head. “Why do I even bother?”

“Did I do something wrong?” It appears she might have grown tired of our game. There are moments when my all-encompassing hate of her goes full circle to actually having fond feelings.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” she said.

That very moment, we entered into a serious round of education to improve me.

Without ever realizing the exact moment, I convinced her to address me as “Veronica."

Over the next few weeks, I received calls from Marcy, Patty, and Yvonne. All of them are members of Sandra’s club and had been taken to an individual lunch by her, to explain what “she” had done to me. They all had told her that it was a remarkable approach to husbandry and vowed to help her.

Secretly, they were concerned about her mental health. I told them that her doctor had cautioned me not to disturb her fragile psyche and had advised me to do everything I could to carry out her fantasies.

They praised me for playing along with her. I assured them all that all they had to do was act as if I was one of them, at the club meeting, and not express anything other than total acceptance of me as a female.

Which they did.

***
“Dan called,” she said. “He wants to know if I killed you and stuck your body in the freezer.”

“Did he say that?” I giggled. I was studying my hair in the mirror. It had been almost jet black, but “the doctor” and Sandra had made me bleach it. It actually looked quite cute.

Almost everything I wore was pink and short. I still managed to keep the house immaculate and had mastered cooking, so that we both looked forward to each meal, with fascination.

I had been reading nothing but romance novels for weeks, which fueled my curiosity and desire to experience sex with a man.

“He wants to hold a surprise party for your birthday.”

I smiled. I would present the perfect picture of femininity and she would be totally mortified. “When?” I felt confident in my appearance and was ready for the next step.

“I’ll tell him no surprise party, Veronica. We’ll just have a regular party. He can be the bartender.”

“That sounds nice. I could make. . ..”

As I discussed the menu, her mind wandered, she was coming loose from the real world right before me.

Later that night, Marcy called. Each of them was to bring a “most likely new spouse” for me to meet.

I laughed and assured Marcy that she should tell all of her friends in the club, to humor Sandra, by doing what she asked.

Hopefully, one of them would bring Stan, the Amazon man, with his amazing package.

***
The day of the party, Sandra took me to her salon and treated me to a complete makeover. I got up the nerve to shop for and purchase my own outfit in a real store.

I looked pretty and confident when we welcomed our first guest. It had been a long road from conception to completion.

Dan arrived -- about fifteen minutes after the party started. He took one look at me in my chiffon ruffled shirtdress and then dragged Sandra into what had been her and my bedroom.

Within a few moments, we all heard muffled sounds of lovemaking.

The men who had been selected as “my next spouse” surrounded me with words of consolation.

There was only one thing to do. I selected Sammie, the one who looked the most like Stan, and led him to my bedroom to make a little noise of our own. After Sammie’s first penetration, I could see nothing but advantages, in being a woman.

***

I looked around at what had once been my house.

Dan had taken my place.

I had moved in with Sammie.

“The doctor called the other day,” Sandra said. We were looking through a catalog, for last-minute ideas for the weddings. In three days, Sandra would be wed to Dan and just three months after that, I was to marry Sammie. We had agreed upon an amicable divorce. In fact, we were going to be each other’s maid-of-honor. “He said the pills you took were placebos.”

“Uhm.”

“It’s amazing what the mind can do,” she posed.

It’s almost as amazing as what Dan can do. I gazed lovingly at him in a picture on her mantel.

My new plan was to steal Dan from Sandra. He and I had been meeting for sex every day, for the last few weeks, while Sandra was at her gym. I would never go through with my marriage to Sammie. It wouldn’t be fair to him, given my plans for Dan.

Within six months, I would convince Dan that he can’t live without me. After all, he and I had much more in common than he would ever have with Sandra.

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

An alien abducts Sharyn, makes a cogent argument, and then proposes a change.

Alien, Eh?
By Angela Rasch

“Jake, where are we?”

About a year ago, Jake moved in next door in our cookie-cutter suburb just north of Chicago. We’re early sexagenarians, who quickly became friendly enough to have drinks together sitting by his pool or mine. Those cocktails moved us on a path to a deep and enjoyable relationship. It only took a few times hearing him say “oot and aboot” to identify him as an alien.

He had suggested that the two of us take a four-day trip to Windsor, Ontario.

“We’re in Canada, Sharyn.”

Sharyn? During an inebriated evening last fall, I let Jake in on my most guarded secret -- being a closet transgender. He supported my lifestyle aspirations but shared my perspective of probable huge downside consequences -- if I elected to live openly transgender. His Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology proved helpful in understanding who I am . . . and why.

“I know we’re in Canada. Going through customs had been a massive clue. Uhmmmm?” I asked. “Why are we at a private home and not at Caesars Casino?” I lowered the passenger-side window of Jake’s ten-year-old Range Rover to peer at . . . an enchanting house. The seductive aroma of lilacs greeted me.

“We’re not going to the casino,” he explained. “I didn’t want to get into a kerfuffle – so I planned for both of us.”

I took a moment to react to being abducted. I’ve spent too much time staring into his beautiful eyes and not enough effort discovering more about him. Simply by asking I’d uncovered some of his background. He married forty years ago, but “Emma” died young from leukemia. He’s careful with his money -- but never cheap. Jake gives freely of his time to several charities. Like me, he has no immediate family.

I know all that and enough more to fill a book, but I’ve never bothered to determine if he’s a serial killer. My bad! Is this mini vacation a huge mistake?

I don’t like change or surprises. I’ve been using my MBA/CPA as CFO of Warren, Inc. for ten years; nine years too many. There are only so many interesting beans to count. I need to explore other options – but. . .. I shook my head. “Jake, this isn’t funny. You altered our plans without talking to me first.”

His face dropped. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course!” Maybe? After spilling the tea to him about being transgender he insisted that I needed to allow myself to express my femininity. He’d said that it wasn’t healthy for me to suppress that integral part of my being. For the last six months, we’d spent at least three nights a week in either his house or mine with me in full ‘Sharyn’ mode. Feeling very comfortable with Jake, I soon cooked all our meals and added feminine touches to his house to make it more . . . homey.

I’d expanded my self-imposed closet to include Jake’s house, but never ventured out as “Sharyn.” Behind me today, in the backseat, were my “his” and “her” suitcases to accommodate my two-spirit identity. Supposedly there was to have been ample “Sharyn” time in our suite at the casino.

“Of course, I trust you,” I equivocated, cringing at my failure to be totally honest.

Our relationship improved exponentially about four months ago when he first made love to me. He’s a fantastic lover, who makes me feel sexy when he declares me Emma Thompson’s twin. He’s awakened my female needs. Until he came along, I felt asexual. I’ve had a lot of friends – but only one lover. His attention to me became a catalyst for losing twenty pounds. There are so many flattering size fourteen dresses -- compared to size sixteen.

I’ve become so dependent on him. He goes on a business trip Monday through Friday every fourth week. Once he’s on that 8:10 flight to Windsor, I miss him horribly. I smiled contentedly. I’m dressed mainly in boy clothing today – “mainly’ because I discarded my CK briefs for Versace panties a decade ago. Despite my outer clothing, I’d spritzed myself with a discrete amount of sanity-preserving Chanel No 5.

He returned my smile. “For the last several months, you’ve been rightfully complaining about how attitudes toward transgender are deteriorating in the U.S. -- becoming increasingly more intolerable.”

When Jake pulls himself that erect to expound on something, I realize his seven-inch height advantage on me is quite appealing. “It’s horrible what the Republicans are doing and saying,” I agreed. “Trump said at one of his campaign rallies that if he’s re-elected, he’ll punish doctors who provide transgender-affirming care for minors. He said that transgender is a concept the radical left manufactured only a few years ago.”

“I guess that means he’s never heard of Christine Jorgenson, Renee Richards, or Lili Elbe.” He shook his head, clearly commiserating. “I guess rewriting history will be easier once they’ve banned all the LGBTQ books.”

I nodded.

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry I brought you here under false pretenses. But I want you to give serious consideration to living in . . . Canada . . . as a woman.”

Move? To Canada? This is coming out of the blue! Jake isn’t a fool. He’s always had my best interest in mind. I’m willing to, at least, listen. “Why Canada?”

“Compared to the United States, Canada is nirvana when it comes to transgender issues.”

His light brown hair is so adorable. It amazes me that someone who looks just like Liam Neeson can possibly consider himself unattractive. “Really? We drove five hours to get here. However, if we were living in Detroit, we could have been here in ten minutes. We could have flown here from O’Hare in about thirty-five minutes. You’re proud of your homeland. But are you seriously suggesting that things are that much different between neighboring countries?”

“Very much so,” he argued. “You can’t imagine how foreign the States seemed to me when I moved to Chicago. There are basic philosophical differences. Consider this; Canada brings in immigrants at a rate that’s about twenty-five percent higher than the States. The United States calls itself a melting pot . . . where everyone is expected to conform. Canada thinks it’s a mosaic -- made up of many cultures. Canadians, who always try to be nice, believe it’s rude to stick their noses into other people’s business.”

That all seems to point toward Canadian inclusiveness. I eased out of his car and took in the craftsman home. I love the look. It appears to be over a hundred years old and recently remodeled -- without losing its charm. The neighborhood is nice and probably deliciously eclectic. “Did you rent this place on VRBO? Wouldn’t it be great to own a house like this?”

“Sharry, you don’t really own this kind of property. You’re more of a steward. Do you like it?”

It is the perfect combination of brick and clapboard. The dahlias are pretty. But the yard is much too austere. I’d love to get my hands on it. I sighed. “This is exactly the house I was looking for when I bought my current home. I had to settle for a new-built house, to get a location near work. They just don’t build’em like they used to. I’ve always loved an open front porch that seems to welcome the world. I can almost taste the lemonade and hear the lulling conversations. Look at that cornice! Marvelous!”

His body has lost the awkwardness it's had for the last hour.

“I’ll give you a tour. Four bedrooms. Three baths. Hot tub. It’s only a little over a klick to Windsor Center and a short shot to the casino -- to drop a loonie, or two. There are several great restaurants within walking distance. There’s a Real Canadian Superstore up the road on Dougall.”

“Okay . . . but why the secrecy?” Jake isn’t normally this anxious. He’s been strangely mysterious all day. “Why aren’t we staying at the casino?”

“The casino’s really swanky. They have a handful of good restaurants to choose from -- everything from a Timmie’s for Timbits to a five-star steakhouse. But staying here offers us an intimate setting to really talk things through . . . mainly about all the reasons you should move to Canada. It’ll be like going to a private retreat.”

I’d questioned our choice of Windsor as a destination. Coming here seemed to close to work for Jake, with his corporate home office being here. I would have preferred a romantic Door County inn. “Jake – it’s sweet of you to think of my well-being – but I’m not moving. You seem really convinced that Canada is much better for trans people. However -- just because you think I would be more readily accepted as Sharyn -- I’m not transplanting to the frigid Far North.”

“Actually, Windsor is south of Boston or Minneapolis.”

“Thinking of Canada as being North is a mental thing. When it’s seventy-five degrees in Chicago it’s probably twenty-four degrees in Windsor -- if I’m doing the Fahrenheit to Celsius conversion right.”

“That sounds correct.”

“Well, twenty-four degrees is c-o-l-d!”

He laughed. “You could always do the snowbird thing and spend part of each winter in Arizona. You need to make a change. ‘Sharyn’ is the real you. When you’re forced to be ‘Hugh’ you become visibly distressed.”

“Yes, it’s ‘distressful,’” I allowed, “but that stress is also unavoidable in today’s world.” I touched my man bun and wished for the millionth time that any time I wanted I could have my hair curled and styled.

“Your stress would be ‘avoidable’ in Canada. Of course, you’d also have to get used to taking your shoes off when you enter a home.”

I blushed. Jake had taken his shoes off at the door. I sat and removed my sneakers and placed them next to Jake’s. “Oh. . .that fireplace is. . .majestic!”

“True. She’s a beauty. There’s nothing like a Black Cherry from the PoP Shoppe and a roaring fire to warm the soul.” He went on. “Canada isn’t U.S.A. 2.0. Canada has its own money, system of government, and two official languages. Canadians call things by different names. A TV remote is a converter. Your sneakers are runners. The bathroom is known as a washroom. And -- a stocking cap is a toque.”

He rattles on like that when he’s nervous. So cute!

It’s odd that there are no pictures on the mantel or hanging on the walls. The balustrade going to the second floor is exquisitely handsome! “Using a few different words doesn’t sound too alien. But I’m having a hard time believing Ontario’s people are much different than those living in the Land of Lincoln.”

“It’s a whole new world. If Canucks weren’t so darn nice it might even be disconcerting.” He smiled broadly. “I think you would agree that Canadians are more laid back than Yanks. The average Canadian worker puts in about twenty percent fewer hours on the clock and takes off more time for holiday and personal leave -- about fifty percent more.”

“I knew that. I also know that Canadians are more open.” I nodded. “My -- the woodwork in this house is lovely. It’s simply gorgeous. They really were ‘craftsmen’ back then.” I turned to look into his elegant blue eyes. “Why do you think Canadians are more inclusive toward trans?”

He adopted a professorial demeanor. “I don’t ‘think’ – I ‘know.’ When I first started thinking about convincing you to move here, I did my research. I didn’t want to be a keener, but I know you like to have the hard facts.”

He might not have wanted to be a “keener,” but he does sound a bit nerdy. This home’s kitchen makes me want to bake banana-nut-oatmeal muffins for Jake.

“A marketing data company issued an international study concerning transgender issues in 2018 that compared sixteen countries’ survey results,” he said, “which I’ve committed to memory.”

“Can I assume this comparison was favorable for Canada versus the United States?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

“Very much so. Look . . . Canada is not the same as the U.S. Only twenty-seven percent of the people in Canada consider religion to be important.”

“Did you say twenty-seven percent? That sounds quite low.”

“It would sound low to you. Almost twice that, fifty-three percent of U.S. citizens, consider religion to be important. You combine that with the influence churches exert over the U.S. government -- and that alone largely explains why some cultural attitudes are poles apart.”

Interesting! “Are you saying Justin Trudeau doesn’t genuflect to churches?”

He chuckled. “Canada prides itself on a secular government with a strong separation between church and state. It would be the end of a Canadian politician’s career, if he were to pose with a Bible.”

I really do love this house. The nooks and crannies stoke my imagination. “All I really know about Canada is that there’s universal health care. I’ve heard it’s very hard to get good medical attention.”

He grinned. “You can’t argue with the medical outcomes the Canadian health system produces. The average Canadian lives three years longer than the average person in the States.”

“That’s probably due to your intense gun control,” I stated with envy.

“Yes, we do control guns. But those that want guns to hunt have ready access to them. It’s a little harder to buy a gun – but it can be done.”

I surveyed the room in vain for a gun cabinet. “There’s just nothing about this house that could be called ‘trendy,’” I marveled. “Everything is so authentic.”

“When this house was built, perfection wasn’t the goal. The priorities were warmth, comfort, and personality.”

I gazed out from a three-season porch on the back of the house and noted that it sat on a double lot with an ample garden spot that featured hostas. “A person could nurture a lot of flowers in a yard like this.” I barely have space now for plants.

“Happiness is having a project.” He sat on a precious-looking, green-velvet couch, that had arrived straight out of the forties. He then patted the cushion next to him. “Please, come sit on the Chesterfield with me. How about we talk a bit? Then you can decide if I should bring in our three suitcases. If you think it’s best, after our chat, we’ll stay at the casino.”

I nodded and sat.

“Let’s talk about those that think trans people are committing a sin,” Jake started. “In the States, one out of three thinks it’s a sin, while only one out of five thinks it’s sinful in Canada. That means that out of a hundred people, there would be about thirteen more south of the border who think you’re an abomination.”

“That’s significant,” I admitted. I’d winced when he said “abomination” – having been raised in a Christian household. Jake would never intentionally hurt me; if anything, he’s overprotective.

“The numbers are a little less dramatic when you consider those who think trans people have a mental illness. In Canada, one out of four thinks a transwoman has a mental illness, while in the States it’s one out of three.” He dropped an inviting arm on the couch back behind me.

I bit my lip and sank into his embrace. “I just wish everybody would just take a break and remember that being trans is a natural occurrence.”

“Forty-seven percent of people in the U.S. think it’s a natural occurrence,” he revealed.

He certainly has numbers for everything. “That doesn’t sound horrible.”

“It’s better in Canada,” he emphasized, “where fifty-four percent realize it’s natural.”

Well, the sway in my walk is one hundred percent natural. I long ago quit allowing it to embarrass me.

His voice is so soothing. He makes hearing all those statistics entertaining. Of course, I love him so much he could excite me by reading IKEA assembly instructions.

“In general,” Jake stated, “a lot fewer Canadians think that trans people are violating the traditions of their culture. The comparison is nineteen percent versus thirty-five percent.”

“Do you mean to say thirty-five percent of my fellow countrymen think I’m violating their freaking ‘traditions?’” I questioned angrily.

“They do. If you look at all countries for a composite score, the sixteen nations involved in the survey produced an average of twenty-three percent on that issue.”

“Speaking of ‘moving.’ Those bigoted America-First Nazis can kindly ‘move’ their opinions to a place where the sun don’t shine.”

He grinned.

“You’ve sold me,” I stated. “But I can’t just pick up and leave the United States.”

“Why not?” He arched an eyebrow.

“My job. . .?”

“You don’t enjoy your job. You’re brilliant and multi-talented. I’m sure you can find work in Canada that would be more satisfying.”

A tear ran down my face. “I couldn’t bear the thought of moving away from you. That’s out of the question. I almost can’t stand it when you go away for a week. How could I possibly get along without you full-time.”

He handed me a box of tissues, waited for me to dab my eyes, and then took my hand gently into his. “I’ve been asked by my employer to move back to Windsor. This house is mine. I grew up living here. I sold it when Emma died, but reached out to the owners a few months ago and bought it back. The timing was right. They were in the process of transitioning into an assisted living center.”

“This beautiful house is yours?”

“I bought it fully-furnished. It needs a woman’s touch to decorate and. . ..” He stopped and shrugged as if to say he had done all that he could. “If you agree to move to Canada, I’ll accept the offer of a transfer and a promotion. They want me to be a CHO – Chief Happiness Officer. They’ve finally accepted my treatise that employee happiness should be a primary corporate goal.”

“That’s exciting for you. You’ll be a wonderful CHO!”

“I won’t have to travel nearly as much. But. . .that’s secondary to the opportunity for you to start living full-time as a woman.”

“I don’t have much chaining me to Chicago. Aunt Jayne was the last of my close relatives -- and she died six months ago,” I mused. My inheritance from her has made me independently wealthy. I could volunteer at a daycare; I love little kids so much. “I’m nearly retirement age. It does make some sense. However, I’ve heard that Canada isn’t eagerly opening their borders to immigrants -- who are near retirement -- who haven’t paid lifelong taxes to support the many socialistic benefits.”

“They’ll let you in -- if you say, ‘yes’ and marry a Canadian citizen.” He dropped to one knee, and then pulled a ring box from his jacket pocket. Opening its lid, he displayed a stunning diamond engagement ring.

“Sharyn, will you make me the happiest man alive by becoming my wife?”

“Jake, you have great curb appeal. Marriage? Oh yea, no, for sure.”

The End

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Chapter One
I Can't Give You Anything But Love, Baby

Adrenaline surged...daring every sensory organ in my body to absorb the tiniest nuances of my first day out in public dressed as a woman.

I touched the velvety skin on my wife's arm. "I'm so lucky!"

"Lucky?" Nicole shook her head in obvious bewilderment. We had stopped to find our bearings and stood in the hub of the Mall of America -- twisting and turning to keep from being trampled by over-stimulated shoppers. "What an understatement! You've always been lucky. How many other people do you know who've played the lottery once and won the Mega Millions jackpot?"

The day they announced the winning numbers my life had spun like a ten-year old child in a revolving door. I had felt like that same kid on her last day of school -- only a hundred times more liberated.

...

Less than a week after Nicole and I won all that money she had her finger on what was causing my disenchantment. "You've always wanted to be a woman," she had accurately said nearly eight months ago.

continued...

---

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I Can't Give You Anything But Love, Baby

Adrenaline surged...daring every sensory organ in my body to absorb the tiniest nuances of my first day out in public dressed as a woman. I touched the velvety skin on my wife's arm. "I'm so lucky!"

"Lucky?" Nicole shook her head in obvious bewilderment. "You've always wanted to be a woman," she had accurately said nearly eight months ago.

 

Errol is a high school senior, who while finishing his secondary education, is experiencing his first great love. His girlfriend decides to take the sexual reins. Little does Errol know that his personal dominos are starting to fall.

“When the door closes on you, it's because life knows you deserve better. And, if we really knew our worth, we would close the door ourselves.” S. C. Lourie

All in the Family
By Angela Rasch

Chapter One
All You Need Is Love – The Beatles

Paula’s been my girlfriend for a year and a half and this is the first time I’ve ever been in her room. I thought.

“Mom took Cindy and Linda to West Acres Mall in Fargo. They’re shopping for summer clothes. I faked a temperature -- so I didn’t have to go,” Paula said. “They won’t be back for another three or four hours. Mike is golfing with Dad and they’ve probably just teed off. We have the house all to ourselves. I asked you to come upstairs to my bedroom. Because there’s something I want you to see.”

“Cindy will try to talk your mom into buying her a new jigsaw puzzle at Legacy Toys.” Cindy and I had spent a lot of cold winter days putting together puzzles. It was something I enjoyed doing with Paula’s younger sister.

“Cindy’s already spoiled badly. Mom will do anything for us kids -- that she thinks will help us get ahead in life. She drives herself mad worrying about Mike, Cindy, Linda, and me. However. . .calling puzzle-solving a secret sauce, in the recipe for a great life, might be a stretch.”

Because Paula was the oldest daughter, even though she was two years younger than Mike, she’d positioned herself as their generational leader.

“Those who love puzzles, seek solutions,” I quipped. Before the stimulating feminine aroma of her room overwhelmed me. “Ohhhh.” Her room oozes womanhood. Everywhere I look I see a side of a life that’s taboo for me.

She has a 9X12 picture of her and me, from the Snow Ball -- four months ago. It’s sitting where she can gaze at it while she goes to sleep. I don’t have any pictures of her, in my bedroom.

Paula had written me a long letter that she handed to me after school, yesterday. It had started out as a card but had grown to three pages of the handwritten testament of her love, for me. Seeing as how the longest text I’d gotten from her was five words and an emoji, a letter seemed significant in itself.

Given that we were having “a fight” and hadn’t spoken in four days, her letter -- and the startling words in it -- came at me, without warning.

“Read this,” she’d said. “If, after you’ve read it, you want to talk -- come to my house at 11:00 tomorrow morning.”

Her letter had stated that she was deeply in love with me and that she daydreamed about what it would be like when we eventually got married. The word “love” had never been spoken between us.

I had been launched onto foreign soil.

I’d showed up exactly on time, ready to do what I had to, to make up with her.

Her eyes never left mine while she did that female contortionist thing and unzipped her dress. AND. . .then she let it fall to the floor exposing her totally nude body.

“Ahhh! What!?” What is she doing? Shouldn’t she be wearing a bra and panties? Or something?

“Take off your clothes and get into bed with me,” she said as if offering me a freshly-baked cookie.

“Huh.” Her whatzit is furry. Should I be gawking at it? Where should I be looking, if anywhere?

She caught me by my belt, which she quickly unbuckled. She then unsnapped and zipped down my Levi’s. “I’ve been curious.” Her hand danced into my underwear and encircled my fully engorged penis. “Nice. I’ve seen Mike’s, after he’d stepped out of the shower. But I’ve never actually felt one . . . skin-on-skin.”

She shouldn’t be. . .. “Paula. . .should we. . .uhhhhh?”

“Mike calls his the one-eyed trouser mouse.” She squeezed me harder. “I want you in bed with me,” she said, with a beguiling look. Her right hand continued to fondle my cock, while her left hand unbuttoned my shirt.

She grabbed my head and moved my lips toward hers. Then she kissed me like she had a thousand times before, only with more urgency. Her tongue fought relentlessly with mine.

I gently pulled away. “We both have vowed abstinence until we’re married.” Abstinence? That’s a twenty-dollar word with a ten-cent meaning when someone has a grip on you.

“Don’t you love me?” She pouted.

“I do,” I pleaded. “When I read your letter, my knees buckled.”

At the mention of the letter, her eyes misted. “You really hurt me, on prom night.”

“I asked you if you would mind if I went to prom with someone else,” I equivocated. “You could have said ‘no,’” I reminded her. I don’t want to go all over this again and make her mad.

“I understand that you only get one chance to go to your senior prom. But. . .. You didn’t tell me right away that you were going to be with Traci. Traci is the captain of the soccer team. She was homecoming queen. She’s co-valedictorian with you.”

Maybe I wasn’t totally forthright. It wouldn’t have been right for Traci to miss prom. “If I hadn’t asked her, no one else would have. She’s been seeing Rusty. By rights, he should have taken her. Even though he’s away at college, everyone is afraid about what he would do to them, if they asked her out.”

“And, you weren’t afraid? Rusty’s the toughest guy, ever. The paper said he might someday have a shot at the NFL.”

Afraid? A lot of people think I’m playing with fire -- being with “Big Arnie’s” daughter. “Traci and I have been friends for a long time.”

“Friends? Traci isn’t the kind of girl a boy has as a ‘friend.’ Traci is the most attractive girl in our high school. It’s hard enough not being able to go to prom with you because I’m ineligible as a sophomore. But then you take the biggest bombshell imaginable. There’s real talk of Traci becoming an influencer online with a Youtube show about fashion and make-up.”

This is surreal. Paula’s naked and we’re having a conversation. “You’re the most attractive girl in school -- and she’s not a bimbo.”

“Let’s not talk about her. I told you in my letter how I feel about you. Get into bed,” she ordered again. Her freehand felt my chest. “You’re so good at football. Basketball, track, and tennis. But you’re not muscle-bound like some of your classmates.”

I was standing in my BVDs with nothing else on -- looking at her naked body for the very first time. Her assessment of my body gave me a license to speak up about hers. “Your breasts are. . .big!”

“That’s all fat,” she dismissed. “Would you like to touch them?” She pitched quietly.

Feeling her breast had been out-of-bounds. We had both surreptitiously explored each other’s body – but only through our clothing.

I caressed her tentatively. “You’re so soft. And. . .your nipples are so erect.”

She giggled. “That’s because it’s cold. Lose your underwear and get under the covers.”

I jumped in with her, happy I’d showered no more than an hour before.

She reached into a drawer in her bedstand and pulled out a small foil-wrapped square. “It’s a rubber,” she explained.

A condom! A prophylactic! A safe! A contraceptive! “Where did you get that. . .thing?”

She grinned. “Kate. Sometimes it pays to have a Mom who thinks of everything. She gave it to me shortly after I had my first period and made me swear never to have sex, without using one.”

Kate would kill me, if she walked in on us. “Are you sure you want to do this? Is this how you want to lose your virginity?”

“Is there any other way?” She laughed. “Actually, I lost my virginity to gymnastics years ago.”

“Huh?”

“My hymen. I broke my hymen doing floor routines.”

“Uhmmmmmmmm.”

Her right hand persistently stroked me.

“Maybe you should use some lotion,” I suggested.

“Oh,” she said quickly, “I’ve read about that.” She had a bottle of body lotion next to her bed and let loose of me just long enough to pump a few squirts into her hand. “You’ll smell girly. But that’s okay because this will help both of us. The scent will match your gorgeous, long, curly hair, and pretty face,” she mocked. Then she rubbed the lotion into me where it would do the most good.

“It’s cold! I don’t mind the fragrance. It smells like you did the first time I danced with you when you were a brand-new freshman.”

“You remember!” Her face lit up. “I love how romantic you are. That was our first night together. The night of our first kiss.”

“How could I ever forget?”

“I was so scared of you. A big junior asking me to dance. Everyone was so jealous of me. You were the upperclassman everyone wanted.”

“Getting to know you that night was like unwrapping a present.” I pulled her into a hug, which felt much different without clothes. “You were. . .are. . .the most beautiful girl in our high school. The smartest. The most fun.” This is really happening! “Are you sure you really want to do this?”

Her answer was to take a tissue and wipe the lotion off my penis. “There’s something I’ve been dreaming about.” She slid down and kissed the tip of my penis. Before licking it like a popsicle. Then she took it into her mouth.

She’s leaving lip gloss on my. . .. This is like a wet dream, only I’m awake. Pressure began to mount in my crotch. “Paula, I’m going to burst.”

She popped up. “Not yet!”

After she switched positions we were face-to-face -- touching. . .everywhere.

She’s three inches shorter than me. We’re perfect for each other. We fit together like two LEGOs.

“Don’t you want to. . .?” She asked shyly.

Do I? “I. . .ahh.”

She frowned. “After your prom, you and Traci-kins went parking. I know you did. I followed you. I didn’t stick around. But I know you and Traci went to a spot north of town and. . ..”

Mike told me Paula got her car stuck looking for me. “Big Arnie” had to use one of his construction company’s biggest trucks to get it out. “Nothing happened. I swear nothing happened.”

“Do you expect me to believe that? Traci looked like Daenerys Targaryen and you looked like Justin Bieber. It seemed like upright sex, when you two were slow dancing.”

Traci had looked totally fabulous. She did have a mother-of-dragons vibe going.

“Try to tell me you didn’t want to have sex with her.”

“I. . .ahh.” Oh, oh. Her eyes just told me she knows I wanted to. When I originally asked Traci it had been entirely innocent. Then Paula got pissy about things and I thought maybe Traci was forbidden fruit I should be sampling. It’s a stupid defense. But I’m in my last weeks of high school and rules that seemed to important just months ago are being tossed aside. “All the other guys were going somewhere after prom to. . ..”

“So -- you thought you’d lose your virginity to Traci?” Her scrunched face clearly indicated the strife she had gone through.

I closed my eyes and bit my lip. My penis went to half-mast.

“How do you think that makes me feel?” She sobbed quietly.

Oh geez. I’ve made girls cry before but they were stupid tears -- not tears of anguish. “I’m sorry,” I said, holding her to me. “I’m a jerk. I’ll make it up to you. Just tell me what you need me to do, to make things right.”

“You’re not a jerk. However. . .I can’t stand the idea of someone else being your first. You want to be my first, don’t you?”

I nodded. “For sure.” Her open closet door allowed me to see a rack of dresses she’d worn when we’d gone to school dances and parties. Each one held special memories for me.

She pumped me until I was fully inflated, again. Then she worked her rubber onto me. “Mom must have bought the extra-large size,” she commented. “It’s a little too big for you. No matter, as long as it catches all your little baby-makers.” Her arms encircled my neck.

Her underarms smell like baby powder.

She nibbled on my ear. “We’re going to do this a million times. We’re not going to be like old couples who quit having sex after they get married.”

Married! I love it when she talks about us getting married.

She coated me with a bit more of the lavender-scented lotion.

That rubber blocks some of the. . .. I stared at the picture of her and me and thought of the many years we would have together.

“If you love me. . .you’ll do me,” she stated unequivocally.

We shouldn’t do this. I stopped short and stared into her eyes. Oh my! I love her eyes. The thing is -- her eyes tell me that she loves me unconditionally. Her eyes scream that she loves being with me.

After some initial fumbling, we fit together, and I started to burn in my penis. Seconds later, I exploded.

She smiled strangely. “That was sooo nice. They say it will only get better and better -- the more practice we have.” She kissed me softly.

Chapter Two
When a Man Loves a Woman – Percy Sledge

“You couldn’t ask for a nicer day,” Kate said, while munching her fast-food salad from Wendy’s.

Two weeks had passed since Paula and I had made love. School had ended and I had graduated and then played in the state tennis tournament. Neither of us had spoken about what we did, nor had we allowed our petting since then, to get beyond second base. But we had moved our relationship to another plane.

Her mother had called me and asked me to have lunch with her. At first, I thought she meant at her house. Then she said that it was such a nice day that I should meet her at the small Civil War Memorial Park off Ashland Avenue and 23rd Street. Kate said she’d bring the food.

It wasn’t unusual for Kate and me to talk, without Paula around. For a mom, she was highly approachable.

We sat at a wooden picnic table covered with initials in hearts. I would have rather she had gotten me a Biggie Burger. But their Caesar chicken salad isn’t bad. Kate must know I really like Caesar salads.

Other than Kate’s hair color there isn’t much Kate in Paula. Paula has a vertical leap that’s nearly twice the other girls’ on her basketball team. She’s built strong – like her dad, “Big Arnie” – while Kate is willowy. They’re both beauties. But in their own ways. Mike gets his refined features from Kate. He’s probably the most handsome boy, in our class.

She pointed her spork at me. “You and Mike are going to college, in a few months.”

I nodded. She’s right. The temperature is just perfect. There’s a gentle breeze and the clouds are fluffy-white and sparse, in a blue sky that is as intense as Paula’s eyes.

“You’re both going into pre-med at Michigan. Ann Arbor’s a long ways from here. You won’t know anyone there -- but each other. Mike’s lucky to have you as a roommate.”

“Mike’s a great guy.” He and I have been classmates since the fifth grade. We’ve never been close. He’s a car guy and his parents bought him a new Dodge Challenger. I couldn’t care less about cars. My parents don’t have the money to buy me a used bike, let alone a car. He hangs with Tom, a doctor’s son, and Bill, the son of the guy who owns the town’s only big tech company. Mike quit playing sports in the seventh grade. I’m a four-sport letterman. My friends, at any given time, depended on what sport was in season.

I had been surprised, when after I picked Michigan and pre-med, he made the same choices.

She was dressed the way you’d expect one of the city’s toughest prosecuting attorneys to dress. I’d gone with Paula one day to watch her in court and came away totally impressed. “I’m going to be honest with you, Errol,” Kate said. “Mike isn’t quite as smart as you.”

“He’s plenty smart,” I argued.

She shook her head. “He’s not in your league. You’re the first kid from this town who’s ever scored perfect on their SAT.”

“I got lucky.” I guessed on at least five of the questions.

“Mike scored in the low-ninetieth percentile. After his father and I went to bat for him with some influential Michigan alum, we were able to get him in, on a provisional status. He has to maintain a 3.25 or better his first two years, or he’s out.”

I just know he got accepted. All the rest of that is news to me. “He’ll do that,” I assured her.

I recognized a set of initials from a couple who were a year older than me. She dumped him.

“If you help Mike, he’ll excel,” she said sweetly, ‘He’ll become the doctor he wants to be.”

“I intend to,” I said. “I always learn better when part of my study process is teaching someone else. We’ll take the same courses and sections. We’ll push each other to study -- ten to twelve hours a day.”

“I know that’s what Mike and you have planned.” Her smile faded. “And it just pains me to think about all that going up in smoke.”

Up in smoke? “Why?” The clouds above suddenly looked ominous. “Why would you say that?”

She stirred her salad in its plastic bowl – shoving her croutons to one side. “Do you know what a Google Nest Cam is?”

I nodded. “It’s an internet surveillance unit often used in a nursery. . .so it’s sometimes called a ‘nanny cam.’” We use them at the daycare to check on the babies, without actually going into the room and waking them.

“They’re also used by mothers, to keep an eye on their daughters. Like the one I have attached to the light fixture above Paula’s bed.”

Oh shit! Is it legal for her to use a camera like that?

“Did you happen to notice that camera two weeks ago, when you were raping my daughter?”

I coughed on a piece of lettuce and had to take a drink of water from my Dasani bottle. “I didn’t rape anyone.”

“Oh?” she said slowly, while she viciously stabbed a small piece of chicken. “How old are you, Errol?”

“I turned eighteen in January.”

“Uh-huh. I remember helping Paula find a lovely periwinkle sweater for your birthday gift. Do you know how old Paula is?”

She had her sweet sixteen party three months ago. “Yes.”

“Errol – in this state, when a person -- who is eighteen or older -- has sex with a minor, who is sixteen, that’s called ‘statutory rape.’”

I shook my head rapidly. “She wanted to. . .she brought it up. Maybe she even wanted to -- more than me,” I pleaded.

“Consent -- is that what you’re trying to say? Are you saying Paula gave her informed consent?”

I nodded. “That’s it. She wanted to.”

She cornered me, in her stern gaze. “Statutory rape laws are premised on the basic assumption that minors are totally incapable of giving informed consent to sexual activities. Their incapacity of choice is written into the state’s statutes—hence the term ‘statutory’ rape.”

I’m a no-good low-life for letting Kate down. But I’m not Bill Cosby. I need to get up and leave. “No. . ..”

“Yes. You’re a rapist,” she said evenly, “and I have the video that most certainly proves it.”

I spoke through the fingers of my hands, which suddenly held my throbbing head. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” she said soothingly, “and I want to help you. I think that after Arnie presses charges, I can speak to the judge and get the recommended guideline one-year sentence suspended. That much I probably can do. However – the law is quite specific that you will have to register as a sex offender.”

I gasped. “Big Arnie” is the size of a small truck and twice as strong. People say he won the money to start his business, in a poker game. He’s not going to stand for a “sex offender” being with his daughter.

“And, you see, Errol, that’s where the most vexing problem for my family arises. Michigan is going to notice when your name comes up on the sex offender list. Because they screen all of their new students. You will become ineligible to be in pre-med, or any other professional field of study.”

This is a nightmare! “That’s not fair. I love to learn, even more than playing sports. I’ve been dreaming about becoming a physician since . . . ever.”

“And, you should be a doctor.” She touched my hand. “I’ve got this quandary. Arnie wants you punished severely. He seemingly doesn’t understand that in the process he would foul our son’s chances, along with yours. Paula is in love with you. . .. I read her letter to you, a few weeks ago, while she was sleeping. Nothing happens in my family that I don’t know about. As I see it . . . and I’ve already got Arnie to agree to this . . . there are two possible routes. So -- now do you see why we had to meet, for lunch?”

“Two routes?”

“Arnie is pliable – for me,” she sighed. “I guess that’s why I love the big lunk. Most people look at him and think he builds those highways his construction company makes, with his bare hands. He’s big enough and strong enough to push a diesel caterpillar tractor around. But he has a soft side. He wants you to have a trial by ordeal.”

“Ordeal?” I squeaked.

“Oh, don’t worry. I know you’re too sweet and sensitive, for any rough stuff. I’ve talked him into a contest between you and Cindy assembling a 1,000-piece puzzle.”

Sweet? Sensitive? Does she really mean a jigsaw puzzle? A meadowlark called to its mate. For someone who is thirteen years old, Cindy has a great deal of persistence and a keen eye. But I’m better at matching colors and pieces’ shapes. “She can’t beat me.”

“That’s what I thought. But Arnie is very proud of Cindy, so he readily agreed to my terms, which I think heavily favors you.”

“And, what are those terms?”

“If you put together an identical puzzle to the one Cindy is simultaneously working on, in a shorter time than her, Arnie and I will give Paula our parental consent. You two will then be married immediately, in a secret civil ceremony. That way you can go off to college. Mike will keep an eye on you. Paula will stay here. I will keep her in line. Once you and Mike both graduate and enter residency, you and Paula will be able to move right in together, as husband and wife.”

Marriage sounds a lot better than “sex offender.” “I see. No harm -- no foul.”

“Something like that.”

“What happens, if Cindy somehow beats me?”

“First – Paula and you don’t get married – at least not right away. Paula and you can correspond and do that texting thing you do all the time. But you’ll leave town next week, to get things ready for college next fall.”

Why would it take the rest of the summer to “get ready?” I need my summer job, to pay for expenses at college.

Kate continued. “We will start with two identical, 1,000-piece, Ravensburger puzzles, the kind you and Cindy both like. You’ll work on tables side-by-side. If Cindy puts her last piece in before you do, you’ll agree to do whatever is necessary to make Mike comfortable -- as your roommate.”

“I’m already going to do that,” I argued.

She shook her head. “You don’t understand the extent of what I’m saying. You and Mike will live off-campus. You’ll cook all the meals and do all the shopping. You’ll launder and iron all the clothes. You’ll clean your apartment. Mike will have every opportunity to study as much as humanly possible -- and you’ll actively encourage him.”

“Okay . . . but we’ll have to talk about the kind of housing and food I can pay for. I can’t afford to live off-campus. Dorm and cafeteria are included in my scholarship. Off-campus living would not be covered.”

“Don’t worry about that. Arnie and I will pick up all of your living expenses.”

“You don’t understand. I’ll be broke -- and won’t have money for incidentals. If I have to quit my summer job at the daycare, I’ll have to find a part-time job at Ann Arbor – I probably will need a part-time job, either way.”

She shook her head. “No. . .your job during the school year, is studying and tutoring. We’ll make sure you have enough money.”

“That’s generous. I suppose you want me to promise that I won’t run off with Paula and get married, without your consent.”

“We’ll sign a binding legal agreement. If you lose, Arnie and I agree that we will give our consent for Paula to marry you, in one year, as long as you agree not to cohabitate until you’re in your residency.”

“Either way, I’ll get to marry Paula within a year.” I smiled. “Let’s do it. When’s the contest with Cindy?”

“Not so fast. There’s one more thing,” Kate said, “and listen carefully. If you lose, in addition to everything else, you will immediately notify the university that you will be entering college this fall as a transgender student.”

Chapter Three
This Guy’s in Love with You – Herb Alpert

Transgender? For as long as I could remember, I’ve wished I’d been born a girl but I’ve never – ever – told anyone. “You’re crazy.”

She got up and then tossed the half of her salad -- that she’d decided wasn’t good enough for her -- into the trash basket. “Errol, you made a very serious mistake when you raped my daughter. Don’t compound that error by throwing away the life preserver that’s being offered to you.”

“What kind of ‘life preserver’ is it, to tell me to lie to the university?”

She sat again, pulled out her lipstick and then fixed her face before answering. “First of all, do you really think Cindy’s going to beat you? Cindy’s barely a ‘B’ student and you’re a genius.”

“This is nuts. I didn’t rape Paula, and I’m not a girl.” There’s a transwoman who works behind the counter at the bakery. Everyone knows she wasn’t always female. No one is mean to her.

“I got my knowledge of the law, through a lot of hard work,” Kate said. “I fought for every opportunity that came my way. Believe me . . . under the law, you’re in deep trouble. Don’t be a fool.”

“But, you’re mistaken,” I quibbled. My life is going to be ruined, if I can’t become a doctor -- and I didn’t do anything wrong.

“Errol, one hundred percent of the people I’ve prosecuted for horrible crimes have told me, at some point, that they’re innocent.”

“I get it now. You’re going to make it seem like I’m trans, so that Paula loses interest in me.”

“No. We don’t intend to tell her. The university needs to be told. I’ll tell Mike that you’re not really sure -- but you want to give this trans thing a chance. I’ll know -- and my sister, who is a doctor, will provide the medical certification for the college. Arnie will know. And, you’ll have to tell your parents. That’s all the people who need to know.”

“My parents?” What does she want me to tell them?

She took a small vial from her purse, and then dabbed her wrists with perfume. “The university won’t want you and Mike rooming together in a dorm, with you being trans. So -- you’ll have to live off-campus. Your parents will want to know why and will want my assurances that we’ll pick up the additional cost. Your parents are fine people. But they’re in no financial position to help you with college expenses.”

Her perfume is really nice. “Why trans?” That doesn’t make any sense, unless she can read minds.

“Three reasons. First – you’ve tasted sex and will want more, frequently. You’re good-looking. A good-looking, pre-med student will be a target, for those girls on campus looking for a husband, with a future.”

“I wouldn’t be roaming the campus stalking girls for sex.”

“Sex will find you, and you will participate again. I can’t have you hurting Paula. As a transwoman, you’ll be less attractive to those girls. The second reason is that if you’re in feminine mode twenty-four hours a day / seven days a week, you’ll be much less likely to hop on a bus or an airplane -- to come home to see Paula. Arnie and I want you two to have a year cooling-off period, if you aren’t married.”

“A year without seeing Paula?” I don’t know. . ..

“That’s only if you lose. The third reason – Mike will also be a target for girls. He needs to keep his mind, in his books. We’re not even going to allow him to take his car to school, for the first year. If the girls see a ‘female’ roommate, they will consider him off-limits.”

“Is that part of the bet -- that I’ll be looking like a girl?”

She sighed. “Of course, you’ll look like a girl -- in every aspect. You will be a full-on transgender -- doing everything possible to assume your rightful female gender.”

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Let’s say I lose. Mike is hetero as heck. You probably had a nanny cam in the back seat of his Challenger and saw him and Beth going at it.”

“Beth was a tramp and totally wrong for Mike. It cost me $25,000 to get her to back off him. But it was worth every penny.”

My stomach lurched with the stark realization of what Kate was willing to do. “But Mike broke up with her.”

“That’s what I paid her to make him think. But what’s your point?”

“Mike isn’t going to want to live with a transgender. If I look like a joke, it will just make him miserable. If I fully cooperate and somehow look pretty, he’s going to be freaked out by a guy/girl living with him.”

In my many dreams, I’ve always been a pretty girl.

“Mike will deal with it. He knows that without your help he has very little chance of making it academically. He’s told me many times that he has his eye on the prize and won’t blow this wonderful opportunity.”

“Have you talked to him about this?”

“No – but I’m his mother. I know his mind.”

I got up and chucked my garbage in the basket and then started to pace. “You could be wrong about Mike. Even so – I’m not transgender and I’m going to win this contest. Who will know what the bet is?” I looked down at her.

“No one except Arnie, you, and me. Arnie will never tell anyone. Cindy and everyone else will be told there’s a $100 bet between you and Arnie. . .and if Cindy wins, she gets the money.”

“And – after I win and Paula and I are immediately married, will Arnie and you try to get it annulled, or poison her mind toward me?”

“No. I swear we would never do that. Not as long as you carry out your plans to tutor Mike.”

“If I somehow lose, how long will I have to continue the transgender ruse?”

“You’ll contractually agree to one full year of schooling to get Mike on his feet. That will suffice. By then, he’ll have learned how to learn. We’ll make excuses as to why you can’t come home and see Paula -- and why she can’t travel to Ann Arbor. After a year, I’ll destroy the videotape evidence. You and Paula can let things happen as they might. We will give our legal consent for marriage, if that is what you two want.”

I sat and thought. “I can’t see where it would ever do any good to tell anyone I’m pretending to be a girl, so secrecy seems okay with me. Just you, me, and Arnie – and those others, if I lose.”

“I’ve drafted something, so we all remember what we agreed.”

The contract stated the terms exactly as she had verbally outlined them.

Kate and I both signed and dated it. She said she’d make a copy for me.

Lightning flashed, and almost immediately, thunder rolled. We barely made it to her car, before the heavy rain poured down.

Chapter Four
Crazy Little Thing Called Love - Queen

The contest was set for that Saturday. I estimated that it would take me about nine to eleven hours to finish my puzzle, with a thirty-minute break for a meal about halfway through. Cindy will take about an hour more.

Arnie was on a job site. But the rest of the Wexlers stood around, to cheer us on.

Two identical new puzzles were brought into the room and we were told to break their plastic wrappings and start, at the same time. The picture involved Disney movie scenes. Both of us were allowed to prop up the box lid, with the picture we were trying to form, as a guide. Kate explained that she’d found the three-year-old puzzles, at Legacy Toys.

An hour later, I had flipped all the pieces to right-side-up, found all the edge pieces, and separated all the rest of the pieces into color piles. I completed this set-up phase about fifteen minutes faster than Cindy. I kept up a rapid pace until I had about half my puzzle filled in -- and was confident I would win.

After we came back from our lunch break, I lost my speed. It seemed like I just couldn’t find certain pieces, like Dumbo’s feather or Minnie’s ears. Those pieces should have been easy to locate. The harder I pushed, the more it seemed like I wasn’t my normal self, while Cindy rolled on and eventually was ahead of me.

I felt deeply embarrassed and overwhelmed by the fear of failure. Anxiety is not your friend when you’re solving a puzzle.

At ten hours and twenty-six minutes, Cindy raised her hands in triumph.

I still had over fifty pieces to go.

She had been faster than usual -- while I’d been much slower than normal.

Cindy tried to console me. “I’m sorry. I’m happy I won. But I know you were going to use the one hundred dollars to take Paula out, to a special dinner.”

Paula laughed, and then hugged me. “We don’t need a special dinner. As long as I have you with me -- hot dogs and beans will taste like steak and mushrooms.”

I had all I could do not to cry.

I agreed in that contract -- that if I lost, I would meet with my parents and Kate the next morning. I also agreed that I would tell my parents the lie about me being transgender. I will have to disclose to them my “plans” to live as a girl, at college.

What a mess! I’ll be wrapping my darkest secret in an elaborate hoax. The meeting tomorrow with Mom and Dad will be hell!

***

“I suppose I always knew it,” Dad said. “It’s your fault, Martha. You’re the one who was always buying him dolls and tin tea services.”

“He wanted them,” Mom explained. “It would have been mean not to have Santa bring what was on Errol’s Christmas list. There didn’t seem to be any harm in it.”

The four of us sat around our dining room table and listened to the clock tick between their stilted comments.

“He was the boy who always wanted to be a witch for Halloween. We should have known,” Dad said ruefully.

“Now that I think about it, that after-shave he wears is more like perfume,” Mom accused. “He gets good grades and he played all those sports. . ..” Her voice trailed off.

I closed my eyes -- so that I didn’t have to see Kate’s reaction to my parents’ dissatisfaction in me. My face burned.

“Will they kick him . . . her . . . out of med school?” Dad asked Kate.

“Oh no,” Kate assured them. “But they won’t allow trans girls to live in the boys’ dorms. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why wouldn’t. . .? Oh, never mind. Mrs. Wexler. . .?” Mom asked. “Why does this concern you?”

“You both do realize that your son is brilliant?” Kate asked.

“In school he is. But don’t ask him to work on your car. His mechanical aptitude is extremely low,” Dad complained.

Kate nodded. “My husband and I were delighted when Errol and Mike decided to enter med school together. We know how much Errol will help Mike stay on task. When Errol came to me for legal advice a few days ago – asking me what documents needed to be filed to claim legal transgender status – it came as disturbing news. Because Errol’s new gender status will prohibit them from rooming together, on campus, in a dorm. Then – it occurred to me, if you have no objections – we would be happy to pick up their off-campus expenses. That way Mike can keep Errol as a study buddy.” Her smile was meant to encourage them.

“Uhmmm,” Dad said, clearly thinking -- to form his words and sentences. “This is quite a lot to digest. But – we don’t have to decide anything this morning. . .do we?”

“Actually,” Kate said, “we do. If Errol is going to transition, there’s prep work to be done. I would drive to Michigan with him. . .er. . .her tomorrow. She needs to be comfortable as a female. If they’re going to hit the ground running with their academics, she needs to be on her feet. . .in heels. . .and ready to go the first day of class.”

“She? Heels?” Dad choked.

I closed my eyes and stuck to my bargain. Kate can do the talking. If I don’t stay quiet, the whole kettle of rotten fish is going to be tossed on the table, including the video of Paula and me. Mom and Dad don’t need to think of me as a rapist!

“Errol needs to get started right now,” Kate said. “I’ll stop on the way to Michigan tomorrow and have my sister check over Errol. She’s a doctor in Minneapolis and knows about these things. Oh . . . we can’t keep calling her ‘Errol.’”

Mom looked bewildered and then smiled. “Had we had a girl, which I guess we did, we were going to name her Rachel. Her great-grandmother’s name was Rachel Anne Ludwig.”

Kate looked toward me.

I shrugged. Rachel? “Rachel” is me. Despite everything I smiled.

“Okay,” Kate enthused. “’Rachel’ it is. Mr. Wexler and I will pick up all extraneous expenses for Rachel, in exchange for her promise to be Mike’s tutor, as much as possible. Is that acceptable?”

“Okay. . ..” Dad whispered. “I wish there was another way.” He turned to me. “Are you sure. . .about all of this?”

I wanted to cry but held back my tears and simply nodded. In a way I’m getting everything I want. . .but do I want what I’m getting?

“Good! Then I’ll be by tomorrow at 8:00 to pick you up. You won’t need to pack a lot. We can buy everything for your new life, when we get to Michigan. Just bring enough clothes for a few days and your toiletries. And, a small box of personal items.” She looked beyond me to my parents. “Rachel and Mike have been asked to switch to an accelerated program. I don’t know if she’s told you. But she won’t be able to come home the entire first year . . . and the university frowns on her having visitors.”

Mom’s eyes misted. “We’ll say our goodbyes to Rachel today. . .for a year.”

Dad leaned back, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and examined the ceiling.

***

The next day we drove the six hours to Minneapolis in mostly silence. The day after that, at 7:00 the next morning, we were in Kate’s sister’s office.

“Kathleen,” the doctor gushed, while she entered the examination room, “How are Arnie and the kids?”

“Everyone is doing fine,” Kate said. “Rachel, this is my sister, Dr. Shirley Lamb.”

I nodded. Does Kate expect me to curtsy? Dr. Lamb looks like Cindy.

The doctor studied the information her P.A. had taken from me and the packet Kate had my family physician email to them. “I see a number of trans patients. It seems all GPs have a few in their practice, nowadays. You’re fortunate in that you’re experiencing late puberty. We can arrest your secondary sex characteristics’ development where it is and achieve some very satisfactory results.”

Arrested development?

“You’re nice and trim, with a tiny, twenty-seven-inch waist,” she noted. “You don’t have much of an Adam’s apple. And – you’re shorter than Kathleen or me. You’re already a very lovely young lady. We’ll just make sure your body matures the way you want it to.”

“Rachel wants to be comfortable attending college as a female,” Kate stated.

“Oh,” the doctor asked, “where are you going?”

“Mike and Rachel are entering pre-med together at Michigan,” Kate said proudly.

“My, my,” she smiled, while she took my pulse, “you’re that wunderkind who’s going to help our Mike make it through.”

“Mike’s plenty smart,” I said.

“Being smart is only table stakes,” the doctor said. “Med school demands that you use every advantage you can get. Mike is lucky to have you. You’re lucky to have someone to help.”

I nodded.

She grinned. “The drugs I’ll prescribe for you, during your real-life test, will be a mixture of estrogens, antiandrogens, progestogens, and gonadotropin-releasing hormone modulators. We’ll start with a shot of estrogen today. It will suppress testosterone levels.”

I don’t know what she’s talking about – and I don’t care. Once this shot wears off, I’ll get back on my puberty schedule and finally start growing chest hairs.

“I have an associate in Ann Arbor, whose office is close to the campus. You can check in with her, for once-a-week, for the near future. She will monitor your blood panels.”

A shot a week?

“Your shoulders are still nice and thin and you don’t have a lot of body hair or muscular development, so we’re in time to use antiandrogens to stop that maleness. Before it starts. We’ll monitor for excess fatigue. The drugs will also keep your voice as nice and feminine as it is today.”

Feminine voice? I had no idea.

“I’m not going to recommend progestogens today and will make a note for my associate to follow your development. We will, of course, start you on GnRH modulators. They will reduce your testosterone levels by as much as 95%.”

I won’t be picking any fights for a year.

“You can expect some mild mood swings, maybe a little weight gain, a hot flash or two, maybe some anxiety, or migraines. Most people only have mild side effects. Mainly you’ll notice a movement in body fat. Breast development, and loss of male sex drive. Do you shave?”

“About once a week. I can normally count the hairs.” Does Kate have to hear all of this? How much will she tell Paula? Paula’s tears and frantic hug when we said goodbye yesterday made me love her all the more.

“Your shaving should come to a full stop. I’m going to give you these three small bottles of pills to last you until you see the doctor in Ann Arbor. Follow the directions on the labels. We’re going to be taking blood every other week. If you’re not good at taking your pills it will be reflected in your test results. If there’s an issue, we’ll go to a slow-release injection.”

I took the pamphlet she offered. I’ll read it in the car.

I should stop her right now. But what would happen then? If I didn’t have this creepy feeling about being forced, I’d be right on board with living as a girl, for a year.

“You just do your tutoring thing to help my nephew.” She smiled warmly, and then took out a bottle and a syringe. “You’re a smart girl, Rachel. By law, you’re old enough to make up your own mind. I’m sure you know what you’re getting into, or you wouldn’t be here today. Pull down your pants and show me your hip.”

Seconds crawled by after I exposed my hip. She’s just looking at me. What is she waiting for? I looked toward Kate, who turned away.

“Okay,” the doctor said and then deliberately swabbed my skin. Before finally injecting me.

“Ouch,” I hadn’t expected the sharp sting.

The doctor smirked. “I grew up on a farm. Cows and pigs used to complain a lot more than that, when they were fixed. Of course, we did that with a big knife.”

I silently began to weep. Maybe I’m making a mistake. This is Kate’s fault.

***

I read the material thoroughly after we got into the car.

We drove east for three hours. Before I had chewed my angry words enough to speak. “I thought your sister was just going to provide certification for the university.”

“You can’t expect my sister to lie, can you?”

“No. But. . ..” I can feel the chemicals in my body destroying my manhood.

“What’s eating you? You lost the bet. You agreed to enroll as trans -- and to live as a trans student -- and to make Mike comfortable, so he can study.”

“Uh-huh. . .but I didn’t agree to grow breasts.”

“Oh that.” She teased. “I noticed that your mother is well-endowed. It’s my understanding that your genes are a main determining factor, in how large your breasts will grow.”

I glared.

“Relax. Paula took forever to start growing hers. They don’t arrive overnight. We’ll get you some proper clothes tomorrow and some breast forms for you to wear. So that when you do develop, you’ll be used to it.”

“She said I won’t have a sex drive.”

“She said you would lose ‘some’ male sex drive. You’re not going to see Paula for a year, what would you do with it, if you had it?”

Another ten miles shot by, without a word between us. “What kind of clothes are you thinking I’m going to need?”

“What do you think?”

“You talked to my parents about me wearing high heels. That seems excessive. Girls pretty much wear the same things boys do. Sweatshirts, jeans, athletic shoes. . ..”

“Not if you want to make it, in pre-med. You’re not in high school anymore. University is based on image. If you look professional, your professors will take you seriously and grade you accordingly. Mike will be wearing a shirt and tie every day. I’m going to have to insist that under the terms of our agreement that you wear skirts and dresses to class every day, as well.”

“Dresses. . .that wasn’t part of the bet.” I thought of Paula’s closet and all the fun things she wore.

“It certainly is part of the deal. You agreed to tell the university you’re trans and to start living as if you are trans. A transwoman attending pre-med at Michigan would wear skirts and dresses.”

“What else haven’t you told me?” I whined.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t make it clear about dresses, what else do you have up your sleeve? Why is it going to take you eight weeks, to help me get ready?”

“Okay -- let’s set a schedule. We get into Ann Arbor at about midnight. We get up at 7:00. At 8:00, I have an appointment for you at a beauty salon. You’ll get hair extensions and acrylic fingernails attached. Your body will be waxed and your eyebrows shaped. They will pierce your ears and give you a pedicure.”

Am I moving too fast? “I’m not eager to have my ears pierced. Maybe we can negotiate.”

“What has to be done. . .has to be done.” She continued. “Your hair will be styled and you will have make-up professionally applied. Some will be semi-permanent. While they’re working on you, I’ll be doing some basic shopping for an outfit for you to hit the stores in, to assemble your new wardrobe. I intend for you to be the best dressed young lady, in every one of your classes.”

I realized I’d been holding my breath while she spoke and finally exhaled. “And, if I refuse.”

She looked miserable and didn’t answer, for at least five minutes. “If at any time during the next year you break with the intent of our agreement, I will deliver the videotape to the city attorney and demand that they prosecute. I also guarantee you that I will push for actual incarceration, for the full year.”

Why does she have to be so mean? “You’re a bitch!” I hurled at her.

“I suppose you think I deserved that.” She drummed the steering wheel with her fingers. “Rachel, do you know what they do to pretty-boy rapists in jail? They’re especially fond of girls with pouty lips like yours. With the drugs already coursing through your body, you’ll be quite the catch for the right cellmate.”

She’s right. But we both know that’s not going to happen. I fumed in silence for the next two hundred miles, until we pulled into a gas station, filled the tank, and then stopped for a meal. I thought about running away and starting a new life. But quickly realized how futile and stupid that would be.

She ordered salads, for both of us.

“I don’t have much choice,” I sulked.

“You have the absolute choice to enter into a new life that will be what you want it to be. Rachel – it’s really for the best. I’d be willing to make a bet with you that within six months you’re going to thank me.”

“Not a chance. I’d be willing to bet that once Paula and I are married and I’m a doctor, you’ll wish you hadn’t put me through all this nonsense. When we have kids, you’re never going to see them. We won’t want them around a psycho.”

She winced.

Good! “You were going to tell me about a schedule. What comes after shopping?” I asked.

“There are two sides to our wager’s payoff. One is to become a transwoman to the best of your ability. The other is to keep Mike happy and content.”

“I imagine you’re going to teach me all about what it means to be a woman. I can do that.”

“I’ve arranged a personal leave. Paula is grounded for the summer and will take care of the house. For the next two months, I’m going to give you lessons in make-up, haircare, speech patterns, word choices, walking, sitting, standing, gesturing. . .. Did you ever see My Fair Lady? When I’m done with you, you will be a refined young lady.”

She trained Paula. I bit my lip and closed my eyes. Some of me loves the idea. Mostly I’m upset and frightened. I nodded.

“Then there’s the part about keeping Mike happy.” She looked over at me. “I work very hard at making Arnie happy. My career never is allowed to infringe on my primary role as a nurturing spouse. I cook, run a good household, keep things clean and nice for him, and I tend to his clothes.”

“You do know that my parents both work? My mother has lived out-of-town during the week – teaching -- for the last eight years. I already cook, do some sewing, and know how to clean a house. I wash my own clothes – and I do most of our ironing.”

“Wonderful! But do you know how to keep a man feeling good about himself? What do you know about making Mike feel like he’s the King of the World?”

“Paula knows how to do that. When I’m down, she cuddles with me and. . .. Wait! You don’t expect me to kiss Mike? Do you?” I’m not gay!

“I don’t really know what Mike’s expectations and needs will be -- and neither do you. I do know this -- if Mike gives up on college because you didn’t keep his dauber up, I’ll see to it that you’re prosecuted as a rapist. But all that is secondary and highly unlikely. Be as pretty as you can be. Arnie loves it when I’m all dolled up. I love it, when he loves it. Don’t dwell on things that may never happen. Think about the wonderful things that are happening. Yesterday you were in deep, deep trouble . . . today you’re on the road, to a great new adventure.”

I shoved myself against the car door and stared out her Cadillac’s windshield, at the interstate highway, which looked exactly like the road to perdition. . .or the stairway to heaven.

Chapter Five
Only Love Can Break Your Heart – Neil Young

I’d not really paid a lot of attention to Paula’s family’s wealth. But I started to see what real money could buy.

The apartment they rented for Mike and me had to be the best available within two miles of the campus and far beyond anything I would have imagined as my college home. The kitchen was straight out of the latest edition of the Williams Sonoma catalog.

It was calming to note two bedrooms. Kate helped me decorate mine in a style fit for a coed. Mike’s, of course, had a much more masculine décor. While my room had a single bed, his had been equipped with a queen-sized mattress.

Kate gave me a deck of credit cards, with instructions to use them to make myself look amazing – including weekly spa and salon visits. She helped me select a small variety of scents and purchased perfume, lotions, deodorants, and powders in each. No expense was scrutinized.

“You are to charge all your food and household expenses to the cards.” Kate beamed. “Arnie and I make a ton of money. We want the best for Mike, and you can help him succeed. To us, every dollar you spend is an investment in our son.”

The trip to the salon and the following days of shopping floated by in a pink, blurry haze. I swung wildly between the sublime and terror. Kate proved to be an exacting taskmaster, sculpting me to be as feminine as my girlfriend. I quickly classified what was happening as a learning exercise and soaked in every word.

The hardest part might have been masking my intense pleasure in what was happening to me. I’ll live my dream for a year. Then I’ll go back to being Errol and eventually marry Paula. Everyone wins!

One day, during our training, while Kate and I were shopping for jewelry for me, we discovered that our hands were very similar in size. She immediately took off one of her rings and gave it to me.

It fit perfectly and felt like a slice of heaven. I loved how it made my hand look.

“Don’t let my other girls know that I gave this ring to you. They’ll tear your eyes out.”

She said “my other girls” as if she thinks of me as. . .. A big chunk of anger and resentment dissolved.

Any reason to resist faded away. I enjoy how I look. I love the process every day of living as a young lady. There isn’t anything that I dislike, except not being around Paula.

I miss her horribly!

On the other hand, I’ve got a great apartment and I don’t have to even think about a part-time job.

One week before classes were to start Mike came to Ann Arbor.

I had spent hours selecting the mustard-colored loose-fitting tunic, swing shift dress that cane to mid-thigh with three-inch hoop earrings and my hair hanging in loose curls.

His initial reaction to me, as a female, seem to be one of wonder. Kate had prepared him. He remained cool, calm, and receptive.

“This is going to be great,” he’d said when he first arrived. “Now you’re not only the smartest person I ever met. But you’re also the prettiest.”

I ducked my head and blushed. That’s due to my doctor’s work. She’s great, gentle, and concerned about my health. She’s more worried about me as a person than she is about trying to make my boobs sprout.

It had been tense, for me, for the first few weeks of school. I didn’t know what to expect -- but Mike acted just like I thought he would have as my roommate -- had all this other stuff not happened.

When Kate left I gratefully kissed her cheek. She had poured a lot of herself into me.

Paula’s letters came every third day – at first. Then weekly, and then about every tenth day. Her fall sport and election to the student council kept her busy. I wrote back to her within hours every time -- telling her as much as I could without telling her anything.

Mom and Dad were curious and polite. They seemed resolved about having a daughter and did what they could to support me. Mom begged until I sent her selfies, which she said she loved. They were happy, once I reported that things were going good with my studies.

Each morning I got up, showered, fixed my hair, made breakfast, applied a pleasant scent, and then gently woke Mike. We had all our classes together as planned and drove ourselves relentlessly to attack the library for cross-reference books and other supplements. Arnie and Kate’s money got us all the learning materials and other support we could possibly use.

We were seeing great results.

Our classmates all seemed sharp. Since grading was said to be on a curve, it would come down to who was the most committed. It became a huge source of personal pride for me to do everything that Kate had taught me, about keeping Mike’s head in the game.

At mid-term we were both at the top of our class.

Mike loved my cooking and was very sweet about trying to help around the house. I had to be stern with him to get him to leave my work to me, so he could do extra studying.

When we studied I would assimilate about 95% of the material the first time I went through an assignment. Mike would absorb about 90%. It was simply a process of applying time for me to take in the other 5% and him the other 10%. And, when I helped him I was overlearning -- and so was he -- making it easier for us to recall what was needed, on tests.

Kate’s lessons did make me appear to be a lady. I got hit on in our classes and around campus. Luckily, Mike went with me wherever I went. I simply pointed toward him and deflected all the unwanted attention.

Actually, after going through Kate’s eight-week boot camp, which was simply amazing at getting me ready for the task at hand, changing gender wasn’t that big of a deal.

Kate made it clear that Skype and Zoom, or anything like them, were out, if I didn’t want Paula to know what I was doing. Kate, Mike, and Arnie evidently had held up their end of the bargain and hadn’t told Paula a thing. By agreement with Kate, Paula and I talked on our phones less than an hour a week in total and did no texting. It had been mutually decided that any more contact than that would cut into our valuable study time.

Because the legal drinking age in Michigan is twenty-one and bars are very strict on checking, if Mike and I went out, it was to a movie or a restaurant. At first, it had been awkward because we were constantly stating to each other that it wasn’t a date. Once we started to simply act like a couple, things became very comfortable and fun.

The other pre-med students called us “geeks” or “gunners.” But we both loved to study and neither of us wanted to be away from our books, too much. Mike’s delightful sense of humor and keen sense of when things had become too much of a grind, kept us grounded.

There were one or two times when I thought I noticed someone talking about me in a negative way. But Mike convinced me I was suffering from false anxiety. He said that they were probably making jealous comments like, “Who does that hot bitch think she is?” or “I wish I could afford to look as good as she does.”

I remembered the doctor stating that anxiety could be a possible side-effect of the drugs and let it go.

I never went out by myself because the university warned all the females about not doing that. My brush with “rape” had scarred me for life. I’m always going to be very careful. I did my shopping online as much as possible. Since our apartment had a doorman, we even had our groceries delivered, after I submitted an order through my device.

It was the third week of November when a letter arrived from Paula. For some reason I just let it sit for about seven hours before opening it. I waited until bedtime and then opened it after I took off my make-up, tied my air in a top-knot, got into my babydoll set, moisturized, rubbed a floral-scented lotion into my hands, and curled up in bed in my room.

Dear Errol,

All my friends told me this day would come. . .and I always told them they were wrong. But they were right.

I’m so sorry. Because you mean so much to me.

I’ve met someone else.

I was at a Friday night football game -- after our afternoon soccer match. We were playing East High and they had a running back who was really, really fast. I said something about wanting to meet him -- and I guess someone who knew him heard me.

The next day he called -- and we went out for a coffee. I was just curious. However, one thing led to another. Before I knew it, he was kissing me.

Then he touched me and electricity shot through my body.

That didn’t ever happen with you, even when you and I did it. We were great. But I always have had this nagging feeling our relationship was missing something. I’m sure you felt the same way and just didn’t say it.

You’re killing it with your grades and will no doubt be a great doctor someday. Neal (that’s his name) will probably drive a garbage truck, after high school.

I’m embarrassed by my base desires. But I also know what I want.

You will have no trouble finding the right person for you.

Your FFL (Friend for Life),

Paula

With every word, pain seared my heart.

“It can’t be. It can’t be,” I tried in vain to say, while I sobbed.

My jaws just won’t form words.

Why? Why did Paula do it?

I vaguely remember Mike coming into my room, sitting next to me on my bed, and taking me into his arms. He did everything he could to console me. Thankfully it was a Friday night and we didn’t have classes the next morning.

Time stood still, while I poured my heart out into his shoulder.

His t-shirt was soon soaked with my tears.

“If only I hadn’t taken Traci to prom,” I said when I finally got myself under some control and could actually talk.

“You looked pretty good with Traci,” Mike said. “Who knew that you were actually prettier than her, and a lot nicer.”

“Do you really think I’m nice?” I asked. And pretty?

“Nice. . .?” He laughed. “The last three months, I’ve pinched myself a thousand times. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you for a roommate. This has been the best time of my life.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

“Same here.” He was still holding me and I snuggled into him.

Mike and I had gym memberships and he hit the weights every day. It was making a difference in his body, which obviously produced a heavy dosage of manly testosterone. His body contrasted with mine, which seemed to get softer every day. He’s also forty pounds heavier than me.

My doctor had told me that my chest was in the “Tanner” second stage, which accounted for shooting pains between my nipples and my shoulders. I was eager to develop more. Because my breast forms seemed incongruent – with me.

Maybe it’s best that Paula dumped me. When I look in the mirror, I see something I don’t think I could ever explain to her – something I’m proud to be. “I love being a girl,” I said.

Mike chuckled lightly.

We never really talk about my transitioning.

“It’s good you love it,” he said, “cuz from everything I’ve seen -- you’re making all the right decisions. You were sometimes moody, in high school. I knew something was wrong. And now, you’ve fixed it. You’re a much happier person.”

“I am.” There will always be a dull ache in my heart for the loss of my first true love. But I can’t let it throw me. Mike and I can’t be distracted from our studies. I know of three boys and one girl who dropped out because of their high school sweetheart.

I looked up at Mike. He’s a perfect three inches taller than me. Then, for the first time, I noticed his beautiful eyes -- and the love that was clearly evident, in them.

Chapter Six
The Look of Love – Dusty Springfield

By the end of the school year, Mike and I were deeply in love. We converted the other bedroom into a workout room and canceled our gym memberships.

We decided to get married ASAP and then we jointly called Kate and told her.

She couldn’t have been nicer and promised to take me to Chicago the first day of our summer vacation, to buy a wedding gown for me.

“Big Arnie” called and teased Mike, in a loving way, that he’d stolen me from Paula. He followed up his phone call, with the delivery of a huge fruit basket with hot-pink kalanchoes.

He’s a big lunk!

***

We’d been shopping all morning, in a world of sparkling-white satin and lace, and were taking a luncheon break. Kate kept calling me her daughter, which sounded wonderful. Who wouldn’t want a lioness for a mom? The two of us had long ago buried any conflict between us. But I had some questions and she seemed ready to answer them.

“How did you know that I was transgender when no one else, including me, had any idea?”

She smiled. “You had two main girlfriends in high school: Paula and Christine.” She bit into her braised short ribs, displaying a hearty appetite that mocked her tiny frame.

I stuck with my customary salad. “How did you know about Christine?”

“I know everything about my kids -- and about their friends. Christine was a year older than you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I heard a rumor that she broke up with you after she gave you a test she’d read in Cosmopolitan.”

“That’s. . .. No one is supposed to know that.” I shook an accusing finger at her.

“Christine told her mother. She said the main thing was that you waited for her to kiss her good night -- rather than you taking the initiative.”

That was a very bad night for me. I walked home from her house in a daze. “I was just being polite.”

“How much did you like Christine?”

“Almost as much as Paula. She’s not quite as pretty. But they both are a great deal of fun to be with and incredibly smart.”

“Christine is a classic beauty, judging from the pictures her mother showed me.”

“You talked to Mrs. Bjornson?”

“I investigate every case thoroughly.”

“What if Christine kissed me first . . . is that against some law?”

“Just the law of nature. Boys are more aggressive than girls in certain matters. I watched the tape of you and Paula in bed, several times. You were scared to death.”

“I didn’t rape her! I was terrified -- but I didn’t rape her. I could never rape her.” Tears escaped both my eyes. I’ll never put that totally in my past.

“Don’t you think I know that?” She used a tissue to dab my tears. “By the way, Arnie never saw the tape. I never told him a thing about it, or what you and Paula did in her bedroom.”

I’d figured that out for myself. “Big Arnie” would have killed me.

“I also talked to Traci’s mother. There were some issues with Traci’s father that you couldn’t have possibly known about. He died two years ago of cancer. But managed to do some unspeakable things that left Traci in bad psychological shape. Let’s just say I’d love to exhume that creep and prosecute the hell out of him.”

“I had no idea.” That son-of-a-bitch! That explains why she got so frantic when we were kissing the night of our prom. One minute she was sweet and sexy – the next moment she had a look in her eyes like someone had poured ants down her dress. I’d backed off immediately -- but by that time her tears had started running.

Where would I be today if we had gone all the way and she’d become pregnant?

“And you still don’t really know what Traci’s dad did,” she warned, “because I didn’t press for details and have colored in some of the lines, for you.”

“Why --- why did you talk to Traci and Christine’s moms?”

“I had a theory. I like you. I liked you as a boyfriend for Paula because I thought you’d be safe?”

“Why ‘safe?’”

“Because you have a feminine nature and would never be aggressive with her.”

“That’s just your opinion.” I’ve been in and out of a dozen exquisite gowns all morning, and I’m still defending some silly, imagined masculinity.

“No – that’s also the opinion of the other two mothers. We all agreed that you appeared to be a boy who would be more comfortable, in a female role, in most relationships.”

“That seems like thin evidence that I’m transgender.”

“Maybe. . .? Let me ask you some questions. Were there boys in high school, who seemed to hate you for no apparent reason? And, even though you were a popular boy, good-looking, smart, with good prospects, were there girls who wouldn’t give you the time of day?”

I bit my lip. “Are you insinuating that people saw me as feminine?”

“Not everyone. You weren’t overtly feminine. But at your core, at your very base – you appeared to me to be as sweet and feminine -- as you turned out to be.”

“When did you talk to Christine’s mom? And, when did you talk to Traci’s mom?”

“The week you asked Traci to prom, I found Paula in her room bawling her eyes out. I needed answers. Because things didn’t add up. Traci’s mom and I were friends in high school. I started with her. She led me to Christine’s mother. I had spoken to both of them. Before your prom.”

“If they thought I was a feminine person, did that mean they didn’t want me around their daughters?”

She smiled. “On the contrary. Being feminine, in the way you are, is a blessing. We all meant it as a compliment. Both of them wished you had worked out, with their daughters. They think you’re a terrific person. Especially Traci’s mom.”

I always thought she liked me more than Traci did. “Did you set me up to have sex with Paula?”

“No – she came up with that stupid idea on her own, to secure you as a life-long boyfriend. Had I known what she was thinking about -- I’m not sure what I would have done. Do they still sell chastity belts?”

I giggled. “I have no idea.”

“Amazon probably sells them online,” she speculated. “But after you and Paula -- happened, I saw an opportunity to increase the odds that three of my children could find happiness.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were a bad match for Paula. She loved you only as long as she thought you were someone who could give her new experiences every day. When her sexual needs were awakened, you simply were not cut out to fulfill her base wants.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. People wonder out loud sometimes about Arnie and me being a mismatch. Arnie is truly marvelous in bed, and I have never doubted my decision to marry him.”

Mike evidently hasn’t fallen far from Arnie’s tree, either. Paula wasn’t wrong about sex getting better with practice. I mentally orgasm just thinking about the marvelous, mind-blowing things Mike does to me in bed.

Kate threw her arms around me and spoke fervently. “The worst part of last summer was when you thought that I’d had you chemically castrated. Several times during our road trip to college I wanted to stop my car and give you a hug. I had all I could do not to ruin everything, by telling you the truth.”

I was very angry during that trip.

She continued to embrace me. “My sister and I were ready for you to put up a fight, when she came at you, with that first shot. We were both shocked when you meekly pulled down your pants. Had you argued at all -- we would have backed down. Having you take drugs wasn’t an integral part, of the overall goal.”

“I was confused and scared. I needed you to motivate me, to be myself.”

She nodded. “The trouble is there’s so little difference between motivation and manipulation. Everything would have imploded had we become the drivers – instead of you. You had to control your trip toward self-awareness.”

She’s right.

“We gave you a very low dosage, a level that could have been easily reversed. It wasn’t until nearly Christmas, when I came to see you and Mike, that it was clear you had fully adapted. That next week your shot and pills were maximized and things were done that couldn’t easily, if at all. Be undone.”

“You did exactly the right things,” I allowed and squeezed her back. “Thanks to your financial support I’m going to have the necessary surgeries this summer to become Mike’s true and lasting partner.”

“I had many, many sleepless nights worrying about you.” She smiled, while she released me. “I’m so glad everything worked out right.”

We separated -- but continued to hold hands.

For the first time, I can see unconditional love, for me, in her eyes. “But you said ‘three’ of your children?’ Paula was one. . .I suppose you mean Mike as the other. . .and. . ..”

“Yes, I knew if Mike couldn’t find a way to love you, he would go through life not knowing his soulmate. He’s not gay -- but he’s always loved you.”

“How did you know?”

“He hid it well. But ever since you guys were in the fifth-grade and you won that county spelling contest -- he’s hero-worshipped you.”

“That’s a big step removed from love.”

She shook her head. “I told you -- I know everything that goes on, in my house. Mike has a huge scrapbook he’s kept about you. It has over a hundred pages of accomplishments. I’ll bet even you don’t remember doing many of them. You can do no wrong in his eyes and never could. I think Mike picked the perfect person, to go through life with.”

I blushed deeply. “Thank you.”

Kate laughed. “I knew you’d eventually get around to saying that.”

A tear of joy ran down my cheek. “But. . .who was your third child that found happiness?”

She embraced me and whispered, in my ear. “Why. . .you, of course.”

Of course. “You’re the master at knowing what’s best for people. But how could have you known that Cindy would beat me putting that puzzle together?”

She laughed. “That was the easiest part. Two things. The first was using a classic jigsaw puzzle. Although the two puzzles we used for the contest were new, there was a third one, just like them, in our game closet. Cindy had put that same puzzle together four times when she was twelve. Before you even met Paula.”

“That would be an advantage,” I granted.

“I told Cindy we were playing a fun trick on you and she went along with it.”

I thought back to what a stinker Cindy could be and readily accepted her collusion.

Kate grinned. “It was even more critical that I slipped a dozen pieces of your puzzle into my pocket. I snuck them from several of the colored piles you had on your table. You were eating the lunch I’d made for you, in the other room. You wasted a lot of time looking, in vain, for puzzle pieces that I had hidden.”

“Losing that contest was sort of like the frustration I felt trying to complete a male ‘life’ puzzle, with missing pieces.”

Mike and I were meant for each other.

There’s great satisfaction when your life puzzle comes together.

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Amy moves back to the United States, after living most of her childhood and completing her RGN training in England. She is halfway through a year of board certification. The Ethical Clothing Act changes everything.

This was first posted over seventeen years ago. It has been updated and edited but – unfortunately – it’s message is timeless. Keep in mind that I wrote this during the second Bush era and have made only cosmetic changes to make it fit into the current day. The steady assault by a misguided political world on transgender rights makes this cautionary tale as relevant today, as it ever has been.

Amy’s Sanctity
By Angela Rasch

Chapter One
There’s a bad law on the rise.

The email from the Dean of Students, Peter Crocker, had asked for her to be in his office that afternoon, December 30th, at four o’clock.

She arrived ten minutes early. Whatever had caused the meeting, Amy could handle -- her long suit being problem-solving. It did surprise her that the Dean worked over Christmas vacation. Since she had no family and nowhere to go, she used her holiday to get a start on research, for a term paper that would be due during the last part of January.

Amy checked her face in her compact. Not the slightest hint revealed she was anything but the average coed unless you considered her opulent beauty, which moved her well above the realm of “average.”

Her personal appearance had been drilled into her by the best UK finishing schools. Her posture and poise were the product of “purposeful, painstaking propriety” — a phrase she had repeated hundreds of times to learn elegant elocution. Amy had attended Rushmount for Young Women for a year before enrolling in university.

“Amy Jayne Belmont?” The dean had stuck his head out of his office and forcefully demanded her attention.

“Yes,” she said, smiling prettily, to allow for his ill manners. She extended her hand daintily to him.

“Ahhh, yes.” He shook her hand roughly. “Come in. Come in.”

He closed the door behind her and motioned toward a hardback chair positioned directly in front of his desk. After he sat down, he took up a file -- and an air of importance. “Ahem. I knew of your mother’s work at the State Department. I was sorry to hear of your parents’ deaths.” His face softened for a moment.

“Thank you for caring, they both were wonderful people, at least to me.” Although it had been six months since both of her parents had died in an auto accident, mention of it still left her immensely sad.

“You have a British accent,” he remarked with some surprise.

“Yes, Mother’s position took us to England when I was five. We didn’t move back, until shortly before the accident.” The precision with which she spoke had been drummed into her at Rushmount. “I’m a U.S. Citizen.”

He didn’t react. Instead, he lifted several pages from a file marked “Belmont” in red ink. “You’re taking a year with us to be certified as an RN?”

“Yes.” Amy was attending Eastern Atlantic Liberal Arts, to eventually work with the terminally ill. She had been a RGN in the UK and worked for a year in a clinic, before moving back to the States with her parents. She paid little heed to anything other than her work. Disgusted immediately by the prattle on TV, radio, and social media, Amy actively avoided all of what was called "news."

She had thought about staying in England, but decided that she wanted to try living in the United States -- because she knew very little about her birth country. She had been almost eighteen years abroad, without so much as a vacation in her homeland.

“According to your file, you’ve been dressing as if you had been born a girl since you were eight.”

Amy blushed and nodded. The subject of her gender rarely came up. Amy had been fortunate. Everything had fallen into place. Her gender dysphoria had been first correctly diagnosed by a pediatrician. She had been blessed with compassionate parents who had the resources necessary to provide the best medical and psychological treatment.

The standards of care in the U.K. allowed her to start on a regimen of hormone treatment when she was twelve. She had rarely dealt with the insensitive rejection and uncertainty that perplexes other transsexuals. To her, her gender had long ago been settled.

He stared at her over his spectacles. “You don’t look like a transvestite.”

“I’m a transsexual,” she corrected him.

“Uh-huh.” He seemed distracted by something in her file. He looked up again. “Have you had quite a lot of plastic surgery?”

She bit her lip. She hadn’t been quite ready for such a blunt question from someone in his position. “Plastic surgery?”

He snorted. “You’ve made yourself look like you’re an attractive young lady when we both know you’re not.” He smirked. "And," he added, "you never will really be a woman."

Amy's head snapped back in response to his verbal assault. She had belonged to a transsexual support group in England. She had several friends who had struggled with their masculine features. Because Amy’s hormone treatments had been commenced at such a young age, she was the picture of femininity at age twenty-four, waiting to take the final steps through surgery to eliminate her birth defect. She didn’t feel compelled to have final SRS at a younger age, because she based every decision on her career and her “deformity” didn’t have a bearing on her nursing.

The belligerent man's lack of professionalism had left Amy short on patience. “Dean Crocker, is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” He replied, apparently without thought. “Wrong? Oh, I suppose you could say so. You seem to be waiting until the last moment to…. Ahhhh. You’re not rushing right into things -- are you?”

“Rushing into what, sir?” She looked with interest at the shelf behind him. All of the books had been arranged by their height. Someone had spent quite a bit of time getting them just so. It occurred to her that sorting them by author, title, or subject matter might serve more function for an academician. “Did I miss something? Perhaps I have an account that is overdue that I don’t know about?”

He coughed. “No. From what I can tell in your file, your parents paid for your year of schooling in advance, before their accident."

Amy nodded. She had been left with adequate money for a short while -- but would by no means be considered wealthy. Money could have been a problem because she had no other family and her friends lived miles and miles away across the ocean. The big expenses had been covered: her education -- and when she decided to -- she would go to a hospital in Minnesota -- her corrective surgery had also been paid for in advance by her parents.

“Amy — have you picked a suitable name? Oh, I suppose you’ll go back to your birth name, won’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” she said -- indicating her confusion. He really is a strange sort, Amy thought. As odd as he’s acting, he might be one of those men who preys upon young students. She arranged her skirt so as not to give him the idea that she was interested.

“According to your file, you were christened Anthony James Belmont. Another ‘Tony’ isn’t going to shake things up -- not too much.” He smiled. “Although I’m sure there will be some surprised people around campus come January 3rd.”

January 3rd will be the first day of classes, when everyone comes back from Christmas vacation.

“You won’t be wearing such a delightful perfume after the first of the year, now will you?”

Whatever is his problem? Such a personal comment seems highly impertinent, especially for someone of his station. She blushed furiously.

“Have you thought about moving into the men’s dormitories? Since you won’t be hiding anything after the first of the year, it would be much more economical for you.” He handed her an application for student housing. It stated at the top in 24 — point font “Application for Men’s Housing.”

“That wouldn’t possibly work for me,” she said, thrusting the papers back at him.

He frowned. “Okay then — would you sign this statement indicating I offered you suitable housing. We’re required to do that -- but you’re not required to take it."

She signed the paper -- unable to see it clearly through the tears welling in her eyes. What’s all of a sudden causing this ?

He smirked. “Your 'kind' have had your day in the sun. Now you can scurry back to those dark places where you came from. When that big ball drops in Time Square tomorrow night, you’d better be dressed the way God intended -- or you’ll be on your way to jail.”

Big ball? The only big ball Amy knew of that dropped in Time Square was the one they used to celebrate New Year’s.

“You’re excused,” the dean said, motioning for her to leave. "I'm trying very hard to work through your personal delusions. Others won't be nearly as tolerant."

Amy shook her head as she walked to her apartment, trying to piece together the fragments of her visit with the dean. Evidently, something would change on the first of January that had something to do with her -- but what?

***

As she climbed the steps to the four-plex she lived in, Nancy, a tall, strawberry-blonde, came out -- a pleasant woman, whose three children ranged in age from seven to twelve.

Amy had baby-sat for Nancy on several occasions. The children didn’t take much minding and Amy always had studying to do. She could concentrate in the middle of a hurricane, which came into play quite often because recently divorced Nancy always seemed to be embroiled in Sturm und Drang.

“Amy,” Nancy said, “is something wrong? You look pale. It could be that flu that’s going around.” Nancy was already dressed for work as a hostess at a trendy restaurant called Nouveau Hojo’s, a throwback to the 1960s. Her uniform consisted of white lipstick, heavy eye-makeup, purple body stockings with nothing underneath, and white-leather knee-high boots. At the moment, she protected her work clothes with a white frilly apron.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Amy sighed. “I just had the strangest conversation. Is there some new law going into effect in a few days that I should be aware of?” The dean had mentioned jail, so it has to be some legal change, but what can it possibly involve?

“Nothing that would include you,” Nancy replied. “The only big change is the ‘Tranny Law.’” She giggled. “When I was a girl my father was a tailor. He would ask the men if they dressed right or dressed left. It was a bit of a joke about which side they usually hung their. . .ah thing. . .ah which side they hung their penis on, so he could fit the pants properly. Under the ‘Tranny Law’ the term ‘dress right’ will mean something entirely different.”

Tranny law? Amy’s head spun.

“The talking heads on FOX have been joking about it for weeks,” Nancy continued. “Oh, that’s right - you don’t watch TV. You don’t watch TV, you don’t go to movies, you don’t get a paper. . .all you do is study, study, study. You don't even read news off your phone, like normal people do.”

“What do you mean ‘dress right?’” Amy normally didn’t push so hard, but she needed answers.

“Dress right! It’s the Ethical Clothing Law, but that doesn’t have anything to do with you.” Nancy looked around, checking on her children. “That law only will make men and women dress the way they’re supposed to. It’s nothing for us to concern ourselves over. I’ve never seen you in slacks and I love my dresses and skirts. I will have to throw out a few old ratty jeans, but that’s no hardship -- considering all the good the new law will do for everyone.”

“Uh-huh.” Amy started to walk toward her apartment in a daze.

“Amy, I hate to be a bother, but can you watch the kids for about an hour tonight? I need to go to the mall and. . .Amy?”

“Uh-huh. . ..” Amy’s weak voice trailed off.

“Amy, did you even hear me?” She followed Amy into the hall and caught her at her door. “Look, Amy, don’t worry about tonight. You obviously aren’t feeling your best. I’ll find someone else. You lie down for a moment. I’ll make some soup and bring it over, later on. Okay.”

“Uh-huh.” Amy shut the door in Nancy’s face. She hadn’t really heard a word her neighbor had said for the last minute, or so. She headed straight for her laptop and opened a search on Google. She entered Ethical Clothing Law, and to her surprise found over four million hits.

What she read during the next hour left her in tears and utter disarray.

The fights over trans people serving in the military, bathroom issues, gender theories taught by teachers, trans athletes, and trans youth had spilled into other political skirmishes, peaking with a constitutional change.

Shortly after the XXVIII Amendment to the Constitution had been ratified, a landmark case made its way to the Supreme Court. The Amendment had stated, “Marriage in the United States of America shall consist of only the union of a man and a woman.”

The United States had become increasingly polarized and liberals moved out of red states to the population centers to avoid conservative laws.

Although a slight majority of the population opposed the amendment, the majority of states wanted the change. Thirty-eight states ratified the amendment in short order.

The Supreme Court case involved a transsexual who maintained that she was a woman and therefore could legally marry a man. Her attorney argued that although born with the organs of a male, her client had identified with the female gender from the age of four. She had been living as a woman and been perceived as a woman by her community for five years.

Her attorney had argued, “My client deserves the legal status of a female based on her convincing performance of femininity.”

Her doctor entered testimony as to the sex-reassignment procedure the plaintiff had endured and its positive outcome. “Her uterus is perfect,” he had claimed.

She lost her day in court on a 6-3 decision based on a far right interpretation of
"privacy." The minority judges wrote scathing opinions of the “unbelievable callousness” of their fellow members of the court toward individuals’ rights.

According to other articles Amy found, conservative lawmakers were not amused by the case and had passed legislation requiring the government to formally recognize two distinct genders. Since they controlled both chambers and the White House, there was nothing liberals could do to stop them.

The new law mimicked the infamous ruling by Lord Justice Ormrod of the UK in that gender is to be irreversibly determined by the sex stated on the original birth certificate. The online articles spoke about a portion of the law that allowed a method to “correct” the birth certificate through a legal process much like the UK’s Gender Recognition Act of 2004.

Further, to prevent the courts from being flooded by fraudulent suits, the Ethical Clothing Law made it illegal for members of one gender to “in any way” present themselves as being of the other gender. “Men” were required by federal law to dress as men, and “women” as women. The law specifically prohibited men from wearing dresses or skirts, except for ceremonial dress having to do with cultural clothing such as kilts.

The information went on, but Amy couldn’t force herself to read more. She stared at the screen, unable to comprehend a law that required her to dress as a man.

***

“Amy, what is it? Are you in trouble? I hope you don’t mind. I let myself in. I just had to check on you, before I left for work.”

Amy looked up at her obviously concerned neighbor.

“Are you in trouble?” Nancy asked again.

Amy nodded.

“Is it money?”

Amy shook her head.

“Is it a man? Has some stupid man screwed with you?”

Amy shook her head again and stood up. Her eyes cleared. “I’ve got to get my act together. What day is today? Oh yeah -- the thirtieth.” She had to move forward her sex-reassignment surgery date. If need be, she would move back to the UK. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Nothing at all that I can’t handle.”

Her chest was heaving, as if she had run several miles. Her emotions threatened to outrun her logic. Handling everything will be simple. I’ll have the surgery and get proper gender recognition through due process, or move out of the country — ASAP.

“Tell you what,” Nancy said, ”I’ll call in and tell them I can’t be in for another two hours. We’ll get some soup in you and. . ..”

Chapter Two
Give me a ticket for an airoplane
I ain’t got time to take no fast train
Oh, the lonely days are gone
I’ll be right home
My baby, she wrote me a letter.
The Letter — The Boxtops

Nancy’s soup did the trick. By the time Amy finished the bowl of rice, noodles, and broth she had mentally reduced the Ethical Clothing Law to a minor inconvenience. The reminder that she wasn’t anatomically correct had been unnerving, but she had long ago set aside any philosophical quibbling. I am what I am. Surgery will fix a minor cosmetic problem.

She would have to make Nancy McLuhan a pecan pie. Amy felt like she had scared the daylights out of the poor dear. It’s hard enough for a single mother raising a family, without her neighbor acting the part of a ninny.

Fear can be so powerful. Fear — the mind telling us that we won’t be able to cope with the unknown. The bogeyman. Amy laughed. Bogeymen didn’t scare her, whether they were legislators with evil minds, or hairy buggers that lived in closets.

No one is going to force me to live in a closet -- or to live any way I don’t want to. Her jaw thrust out. She had inherited her determination from her dad. He had told her a million times how proud her fierce resolve made him. Shortly before he died in the hospital, following the crash, he had said so, one last time.

Feeling much better, Amy’s attention went to the stack of mail Nancy had brought in for her. Included were Amy’s Vogue, an offer from a credit card company, several other pieces of junk mail, and two official-looking envelopes.

An ominous letter from the State Department had been addressed to Anthony James Belmont AKA Amy Jayne Belmont. She ripped it open.

It said:

The Department of State has requested this office to inform you that it has revoked U.S. Passport Number Z7792702 issued to you on January 4, 2020, at the American Embassy, London, England, and any other U.S. Passport you may possess, whether issued to you in your true identity or not.

The Department’s action is predicated upon evidence that you have been identified as a suspicious person under federal regulation, because of your morally suspect lifestyle.

Any further use of any U.S. passport issued to you would constitute a violation of section 1544 of title 18 of the United States Code, a felony.

You are advised of your right to a hearing under sections 51.80 through 51.89 of the passport regulation, a copy of which is enclosed. If you should desire such a hearing, you must notify this office within 60 days, after receipt of this notice.

However, such a hearing would be limited to determining whether or not you have engaged in a lifestyle deemed to be of a morally suspect nature.

Furthermore, you are advised that a request for hearing does not repeal and does not serve to stay the revocation action taken by the Department of State.

Sincerely,
Theodore Aljayber
Consul of the United States of America

Scratch leaving the country, she thought. I’ll concentrate on getting the surgery completed, complete the legal mumbo jumbo for the Gender Recognition Act, and get this “morally suspect lifestyle” nonsense set aside to reinstate my passport.

The UK never looked so appealing.

Amy tossed the letter from the State Department aside, wishing that she could just as easily toss the whole kit and caboodle in the ocean. She anxiously ripped open the second letter, which was from her doctor in Minnesota.

Amy —

By now, I’m sure you’ve heard about our hospital ceasing to schedule elective surgery of the nature you have requested.

I’m sorry. Our hospital receives several annual grants from the federal government, and without them, we would not be fiscally sound. The Ethical Clothing Law made the renewal of such grants contingent upon our refusal to schedule sex-reassignment surgery.

A check is enclosed refunding your deposit.

We are sorry to say that we are unaware of any hospital within the United States that is currently scheduling sex reassignment surgery.

Good luck, Amy. I’m sorry.

J. Edgar Nation, M.D.
Good Samaritan Hospital
Grand Rapids, MN

The letter dropped from her hands. Amy sank slowly toward the carpet. She refused to pass out -- but could not stifle her scream.

In seconds, Nancy, who had heard her yell, held a cold cloth to Amy’s forehead. “Honey, you’ve got to level with me. It has to be man problems. Nothing else on Earth could make you cave in on yourself.”

“Man problems? In a way, I suppose.” She laughed. It wasn’t her normal, musical laugh, but more of a wicked cackle that would have best been paired with green skin. “I’m screwed. I’m totally and irrevocably screwed.”

“Do you mind?” Nancy asked, picking up the letter that had fallen on the floor next to Amy. Nancy’s curiosity was conspicuous.

“Not at all,” Amy replied. “There’s nothing about me that’s ‘suspicious.’” She cackled again.

“Sex reassignment surgery? Why would they think that a pretty young thing like you would want to become a man?” When Nancy said “man” her mouth twisted as if she had taken a healthy bite of lemon. “What a ridiculous notion.”

Amy cackled again. At any moment, the air would be filled with flying monkeys.

“You have to send that money back. It’s obviously meant for someone else, someone wanting to change his sex, of all things. You can’t keep it. Amy, there’s just been a mistake.”

“Not just one mistake, but two.” Amy sighed, and then handed Nancy the letter from the State Department.

“What do they mean by ‘suspicious?’” Nancy asked after reading the second letter. “Were you a member of some strange political club in England? I know that young people can get sucked right into things. Maybe you need a lawyer?”

“It’s not like that. I’m only 'suspicious' because I am who I am.”

Nancy nodded, although her face still looked confused. She looked around the apartment, until her eyes rested on the phone lying on Amy’s couch.

Amy followed Nancy’s eyes. “Do you need to call someone?”

“I’m thinking 911 — you don’t look so good.”

“Don’t bother,” Amy said. She stood up and jogged in place for a moment. “There. See. I’m much better. Thank you so much.”

Nancy smiled. “Do you need money? Oh! I already asked you that and you said no, right?”

“Yes — No - I don’t need any money.” She bent over and picked up the check for sixty thousand dollars the hospital had sent back. “I’m good to go. If I could go -- which I can’t.” She pointed to the letter from the State Department, which Nancy still held in her hand.

“I’ve never been out of the country,” Nancy said. “What’s the big deal if you don’t have a passport for a bit? You’ll get it all fixed up. You’re not a terrorist — are you?”

“Heavens no!” It hurt her that Nancy would even ask. “I’m just a girl with no visible future who needs to get things sorted.”

Chapter Three
Paper or Plastic?

Early the next morning Amy went to the Federal Building, which housed the local Post Office. After searching the listings in the main lobby, she went to an office on the fourth floor. In less than a minute, a cheerful receptionist ushered her in to meet with a professionally dressed woman.

“I need help,” Amy said. She handed the woman the letter she had received from the State Department.

The woman glanced at the letter and then typed something into her computer. “You’re on our one - nine - eight - four list.”

“Uhmm.” Amy felt a hard edge on the forward part of her chair. A picture of the current president hung on the wall. It had been personally signed with a short note that Amy could not read.

That oily bloke must be behind all my trouble. And – I don’t even know his full name.

The woman, who hadn’t introduced herself, frowned at Amy. “Our government compiled a list of people, who for one reason or another have been deemed suspicious.”

Amy blushed with anger. “I’m not suspicious. My goodness. I’ve never even had a traffic ticket. I’m certainly not political. I couldn’t even tell you the name of my senators.”

“I see, but then not every terrorist walks in here and confesses, now do they?” The woman grinned at her own joke. “According to the symbol next to your name, you’re listed in our database as being gender-confused. I think you people call yourselves ‘transgender.’”

“Yes, I am transgender, but what does that have to do with my passport being revoked.”

“Where have you been. . .under a rock?” The woman snorted. “This has been debated for months. It’s for everyone’s safety. You don’t want another 9/11 to happen, do you?”

“Ohhhhhh.” Amy clenched her fists. “Do I look like a terrorist?”

“No,” the woman answered, showing some frustration at Amy’s ignorance, “but you don’t look like a woman who would want to become a man, either. Why on earth would you want to be a wimp called. . ..” she picked up the letter to check the greeting, “. . .Anthony James, when you look like you do. I could understand if you were one of those women with huge shoulders who walks like a dockworker.”

Amy could hardly believe the woman’s audacity. “How can I prove to you that I’m not a terrorist?”

“Dropping that phony British accent would be a good first step.” The woman sneered.

“Phony? This is how I speak. I’ve lived in England for quite a number of years, I’ll have you know.”

“That’s a problem in itself. People who travel abroad are considered suspicious. Real Americans don’t travel outside our borders.” The woman drummed her desk with her fingers. “However, our government is not about to mistreat its citizens. We’re not like all those other countries that you liberals think are better than us. All you have to do is to have two United States citizens, who are in good standing, testify that they have known you for the last five years, and that you’re not a threat to our way of life.”

“But -- I don’t know anyone who is a United States citizen, who has known me for five years. I don’t have any relatives and I’ve been out of the country.”

“A person with your decrepit morals, who’s been living abroad -- and you wonder why you’re considered suspicious? There’s no one the government trusts who can vouch for you. That makes you suspicious. Do you have any other questions?”

Amy shook her head and rose to leave.

“One other thing, dear,” the woman said. “Give up your silly notion of ever becoming a man. Find yourself a husband and raise a family. Join a ladies’ club and make some good friends. In five years, you will be able to have them fill out the necessary forms and you can get your passport back. Why anyone would ever want to leave the United States is beyond me. We have everything here. There’s a Walmart, a Starbucks, and a McDonald’s right around every corner, with everything you’d ever want to buy or eat.”

***

By that afternoon Amy had formulated a plan. Even though she technically needed a passport to get into Canada, she was sure there were places along the border where she could walk across undetected. They needed nurses in Canada; and she felt like she would be welcomed with open arms. Her nursing accreditation from the UK would be accepted there.

She needed cash badly, so she took her check from the hospital and went to the bank where she had a savings account.

“Good afternoon.” Amy smiled at the young teller. “That’s a beautiful bracelet.”

The teller continued working on her computer and apparently hadn’t heard a word Amy had said. She finally looked up. “HowcanFirstFranklinserveyou?”

Amy laughed lightly. “First Franklin can ‘serve me’ by cashing this check. I would like fifteen thousand in cash, and the other forty-five thousand is to go into my savings account.”

“Allwithdrawalsovertenthousandneedofficerapproval.”

“Excuse me?” Amy said. Could she possibly talk any faster?

“All — withdrawals — over — ten — thousand — need — officer — approval.” She flipped her index finger toward a woman in her thirties sitting at a desk, on the other side of the bank lobby.

“I don’t wish to withdraw anything,” Amy said. “I simply would like to cash a check and make a deposit.”

“Allwithdrawalsovertenthousandneedofficerapproval,” the teller said with a hint of disgust at Amy’s inability to comprehend simple instructions.

“Okay, please just deposit my check, and then I’ll get approval to ‘withdraw’ fifteen thousand. At least I’m now certain you’re quite careful with the money I have here in your bank.” Amy smiled ruefully at their bureaucracy.

Armed with her deposit slip and her passbook, which indicated a balance of one hundred and seven thousand plus, after the deposit, Amy walked to the desk of the “officer” to seek permission.

Talk about a game of “Captain, May I.”

“Good morning,” Amy said. “The teller asked that I obtain your permission to access my money.” Amy fidgeted nervously. It sounded so utterly silly. “I would like fifteen thousand in cash, please.”

“You bet,” the woman said. “Don’t you hate all the governmental red tape? I see you have your passbook. Could I scan the bar code to read your balance?”

Amy gave her the passbook, and then watched over her shoulder as the balance, including her recent deposit, came up on the screen. Her smile faded when she saw the screen blink “Flagged Account: Code 1984.”

“Oh. What have we here?” The officer said. “It appears that your account has come under the scrutiny of the regulators. I’m sorry. Your assets in this bank have been frozen.”

“Frozen?” Amy felt panic that was becoming too familiar rise in her throat, and then anger washed over her. “When was my account frozen?”

“I can’t tell you that?”

“Was it before this morning?”

“It’s really none of your business -- as that transaction is between the government and this bank, but. . .. Yes, it was several weeks ago.”

“If you would be so kind,” Amy said with some hostility, “I would like you to return my check for sixty thousand. If my account was frozen you shouldn’t have added money.”

The woman looked at Amy with some scorn. “Listen, your account was only frozen for withdrawals. You put that money in under your own free will. That’s not my fault. You know what? I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I’m going to. Code 1984 is for people that the government has identified as suspicious under the Ethical Clothing Act. It includes all the ‘trans’ kind of people. If I was you, I would go home and ask my husband what he’s been doing in my side of the closet.”

She got up from her desk and placed a sign on it that said, “Gone to Lunch,” thereby ending their conversation. Before leaving, she pushed a leaflet entitled “Frozen Assets” into Amy’s hands.

Amy didn’t own any credit cards, so her “assets” outside of the frozen account amounted to less than the two hundred dollars in cash that was in her billfold. She found a chair in the lobby and quickly scanned the pamphlet. She could withdraw up to $250 a week from her account for living expenses. She could further request that the bank pay her rent directly out of the account on her behalf.

So much for going to Canada, she thought.

***

Amy had just sobbed on Nancy’s shoulder, while telling her a tale of no-dough-woe.

As a good neighbor should, Nancy had popped in -- the moment she had heard Amy come back from the bank.

“Honey,” Nancy said, “you need to level with me.”

Amy nodded. I want to be honest -- but I’m not certain if Nancy can handle the truth.

“Do you, or did you at any time, want to have surgery to become a man?” Nancy asked.

“Absolutely not?”

Nancy breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I mean it. I know we had to do something about everything and such, but darn it, the government really screwed the pooch with you.”

Her three children had been in bed for over an hour. Nancy made stiff drinks for Amy and her and had been sitting clear across the room. She scooted over to share the couch with Amy – now that she had been given the assurance that Amy didn’t want to be a man.

“Amy,” Nancy said, pursing her lips and pointing her index finger at Amy’s breasts, “you need a man.”

“A man?” Amy had no interest in men -- but was eager to have any conversation that would take her mind off her frozen assets.

Nancy smiled, and then whispered like a conspirator. “A man stopped by your apartment while you were out. He called himself ‘Billy the Poet.’”

“I don’t know any ‘Billy.’”

“You should, honey. He’s cute.” She winked. “He said you didn’t know him, but he needed to talk to you. He left this note.” She pulled a small envelope from a pocket in her apron.

Amy opened the envelope and found a strange poem.

Same sex. Same sex.
We’ve heard that crap for years.
I’m the same as yesterday,
And that’s what brings me tears.

Amy blushed and gave the poem to Nancy, assuming she would want to read it.

“That makes no sense,” Nancy said, after she read it several times. “It’s gibberish.”

Amy nodded, although it made perfect sense to her.

“This whole same-sex marriage thing has caused more problems,” Nancy said, shaking her head in dismay. “Darn them, anyway.”

“Them?”

“Those homosexuals and lesbians. You know, the way Billy was dressed reminded me of my dad. He was a hippie. Uh-huh. My legal name is Sparkle. Can you believe that? The last thing I wanted when I was a kid was to be different; and my parents woke up every morning scheming how to make themselves more noticeable. We never saw eye-to-eye, on anything.”

“Don’t you like homosexuals?” Amy knew the minute she had asked that it had been the wrong question. She had stepped into a quagmire, but since her life had become a quagmire -- what difference did it make?

Nancy wrinkled her brow. “There’s Tony at the beauty shop. He’s okay, but that doesn’t give him the right to ruin marriage for everyone else. Geez, It’s like those people don’t know marriage is every little girl’s dream. What are they thinking?”

Amy took out her knitting. Listening to Nancy warm to the subject was like watching a train wreck.

“It’s like it says in the Bible,” Nancy said. “The Lord condemns men who give up their relationships with women to commit shameless acts with other men.”

Amy was familiar with that passage and the arguments about the validity of Paul’s writings and other interpretations. She first bit her lip -- hard — but then just had to comment. “I’ve often wondered something, and maybe you can answer. Which commandment is it that forbids homosexuality?”

Nancy looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh! It’s eight or nine, one of those Thou Shalt Not ones.”

“Really?” Amy just couldn’t resist toying with Nancy one more time. “And where, in the Bible, did Christ discuss the need for mankind to avoid homosexuality?”

“Sermon on the Mount,” Nancy said with conviction. “Blessed are those who don’t. . .whatever. . .to whomever.”

“Uh-huh. I missed that.” Amy smiled at her often misguided, but well-intentioned neighbor.

“When the government sanctioned same-sex marriage,” Nancy went on, seemingly glad Amy didn’t have any other questions, “they provided a legal foothold for an immoral act. That’s just not right. But you know all that, don’t you?”

“I’ve been out of the country.” Amy tried her best to be non-committal. Thinking about her frozen assets had become more and more real -- and definitely scary.

“I’m a very tolerant person,” Nancy said. She also took up her knitting needles, which she kept in Amy’s apartment to have at hand when they had their chats. She worked on squares for a quilt she would later crochet together. “However, my tolerance has limits. Those people are trying to change the whole damned definition of what is a family, for goodness sakes. What would my precious little boys think if our government hadn’t passed the Ethical Clothing Act? How could my little squirts be sure of their sexual identities?”

Amy felt as though she was attuned to others who had gender dysphoria. Little Tommy, the baby in Nancy’s family, was already showing definite signs of having a feminine spirit. Amy nodded.

Nancy continued her screed. “Reverend Parker, down at my church, was worried sick that one of them was going to bring a suit against our -- to force him to marry two men. Would you like me to go over and get us some of those chocolate bars I made?”

“No, thank you. I don’t think I can stand much more.”

“You see Amy. . .pro — creation . . . that’s what marriage is all about. Making the babies. Without that, marriage doesn’t really exist. You see it’s babies that make it important to keep marriage safe and sound, so that it’s not merely some passing fancy. It’s like the difference between a man telling jokes on the corner and a full-blown Broadway production.”

Amy’s head spun thinking about sterile people who wanted to marry -- but instead stood on stage -- singing.

“It’s all about the law of the jungle.” Nancy looked peaceful as she ranted. “People need marriage to be what it is, so that we can keep people together long-term.”

The obvious irony of Nancy’s three failed marriages escaped her, but not Amy. “Didn’t I read something in a book,” Amy asked, “about gay people having long-term relationships?”

“They don’t do that,” Nancy said. “Maybe in London, but not in the free world. They jump around like rabbits.” Nancy sighed and shook her head, unable to stomach the sissy infidelity that was obviously running amok through her mind. “The Constitutional Amendment drew a line in the sand. We not only said ‘No’ to the unholiness of man-on-man marriage, but we threw rocks in the path of incest, tax cheaters who get married for convenience and profit, people who want to marry the family dog,” she sucked in air. “AND -- we stopped those Mormons right in their tracks.”

“Mormons?” Amy was puzzled beyond her amazement at the breadth of Nancy’s bigotry.

“Mormons! Didn’t you have them in London? There are hardly enough good men and they go and be polygamous. They should quit their ways and become Christians as it's laid out in the constitution.”

Amy sighed, partially from nerves and partially because polygamy as practiced by the Mormons would logically increase the odds of a sustained relationship for an unmarried woman.

“Do you remember that commercial?” Nancy couldn’t hold in her mirth. “Remember when they were working on getting the Amendment passed, that commercial where the groom’s side of the church was crowded with all real people in normal wedding attire, and the pews on the bride’s side of the church were filled with farm animals? That rooster was so hilarious when he said, ‘COCK-a-doodle-DO.’ How obvious was that?”

Amy shook her head.

“Oh, the I-don’t-watch-TV thing. You need to get over that.”

Amy nodded, wondering why.

“It’s children ‘they’ want,” Nancy said, bending her wrist toward Amy. “They want to get married so that they can have children. One can only imagine what they would do then.”

Amy had listened to all that she could take. “Nancy I need to lie down for a moment.”

“I know. I know. It’s hard to think about. I couldn’t. I just did my duty and voted for the Amendment. It was easy after they told me at church about how we were under no obligation to accept anyone else’s lifestyle, if that lifestyle has no worth.”

“No worth?” Amy felt her anger grow. “I’m wondering? What do you do about the babies. . .the babies born with gender abnormalities?”

“Now that’s a problem. Thank goodness there aren’t many of those.” Nancy stood to go.

“Nancy, I’m a nurse. About one child in every one hundred newborns has something about them that is in direct contrast with their stated gender.”

“No! That can’t be. We are born either a man or a woman. It really is that simple.”

Amy practically shoved Nancy out the door before bolting to her bathroom where she heaved all the illness she felt into her toilet.

Later that night, she went to a men’s clothing store and bought two pairs of jeans, some cheap tennis shoes, and two sweatshirts.

Chapter Four
Billy, Billy — could be Willy,
How does your garden grow?
I plant the seeds and hoe the weeds.
What’s left? I do not know.

On January 3rd Amy left her apartment dressed completely in male clothing, except for her panties and bra. She worried about what her professors and fellow students would say when they saw her. She had pulled her hair back into a low ponytail and wore no make-up. Those days had been left behind her.

Two blocks from campus she spotted a new billboard. Previously, it had been covered with a message selling hot tubs. It now said, “Be a good citizen. Men — grow your beard out. Women — keep your hair long. Tell the world who, and what, you are! Report anyone who is suspicious!”

Amy was now Anthony James; and there seemed to be nothing she could do about it for five long years. After five years, she could have two people vouch for her so she could get off the 1984 list, and then get a passport.

She walked looking down, deep in turmoil. Her head snapped up when a police siren startled her.

“Stop right where you are,” the police officer called through his P.A. system.

Amt looked around. There was no one within fifty feet of her. She looked at the officer in the police car, which had pulled over.

“Step away from the curb, turn, put your hands out, and lean against the building.”

Amy complied.

“Now -- spread your feet.”

The policeman got out of the car, and then walked up to Amy. “You’re my first one,” he said proudly.

“First what?”

“Illegal cross-dressing,” he said. “I didn’t think any of you would have the nerve to do it.”

How does he know about my panties and bra?

“Look lady, I’m going to have to take you in, but between you and me, you’re a good-looking broad. You should wear a skirt and forget all that other shit about becoming a man.”

“I don’t want to become a man,” Amy wailed.

“Oh shit,” the officer said. “Save it for the sergeant and the judge.”

When they got to the police station, Amy demanded that they strip-search her, which touched off a debate as to whether a policewoman or a policeman should do it.

The sergeant ordered the arresting officer to do it, but when he got to her panties and bra he deferred to a female officer. When the female officer uncovered new evidence, the police were dumbfounded. Their solution was to change the charges to Amy being a public nuisance. Since she didn’t have enough cash or credit cards to make bail, she called Nancy.

The police put Amy in a cell by herself, not wanting to create a riot in either of the holding tanks. Thirty minutes later, Amy had been released -- but to her surprise, it hadn’t been Nancy who had put up her $250 bail.

“Hi, Amy,” the young man said. “I’m Billy. I was waiting in Nancy’s apartment to talk to you when you called. Nancy had heard me knocking on your apartment door and was nice enough to invite me in.”

He looks pleasant enough, and he did bail me out of jail. Amy shuddered. The experience of being locked behind bars had left her shaken. She couldn’t help herself from being blunt. “Who are you, for goodness sake?”

Billy put a finger to his lips. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.” He led her down the block from the police station to a Starbucks. They sat at a table as far away from any other customers as possible.

“We have to be careful in here,” he said. “The government owns all the Starbucks. They bought them, when they realized how addictive their coffee is. They use them to spread propaganda through wall posters and what’s written on the side of the cups.”

Amy’s cup featured a picture of a bearded man in a dress. Next to him was the question, “Is this subversive-in-training preparing for another 9/11?” A number had been printed on the cup to call, if you saw anyone who looked suspicious.

“Why didn’t we go to another coffee house?” Amy asked.

“How long have you been in the U.S.?” He looked furtively in every direction.

“A few months.”

“Have you seen any other kind of coffee house?” His eyes finally rested on hers.

“Come to think of it, no.”

“And you won’t. By law, the government has a monopoly.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“You’re learning.”

She nodded ruefully.

He took a sip of coffee. “Not bad, considering.” He smiled warmly. “As I said, I’m Billy.”

She extended her hand to him.

His grip was firm, but not crushing. “We don’t use last names. I go by Billy the Poet.”

“I received your poem,” Amy said. “Who are ‘we?’”

Billy lowered his voice. “My birth gender was female.”

“Ohhh.”

“There are thousands of us in the underground. The government might have done us a favor with their new laws, as we’ve become much better organized.” He wiped mocha from his upper lip with a napkin.

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be walking around in men’s clothing?”

“That’s been taken care of.” He winked.

Amy assumed that he meant that he had undergone surgery. “Listen, Billy. I don’t know if you know about it -- but the government has a list.”

“The 1984 list,” Billy smiled. “You'd think they could have been a bit less Orwellian?”

“Omigosh,” Amy said. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Aren’t you afraid they’ll hunt you down?”

“I’m not on their list. . .anymore.” He caught her eyes in his stare.

Amy blushed and looked away. His terminal cuteness had not been lost on her. “Did you have two people vouch for your character?” She asked.

“Did they try that one on you?” Billy asked. “No one who has filed those forms has ever been taken off the list. The only thing that happens is -- both of the people who vouch for you are added to the list of suspicious people.”

“Nooo.” Amy quickly reasoned that she would never get back to England -- and never would have her SRS.

“Amy, I was sent to you by your friend, Doctor Nation of Grand Rapids, Minnesota.”

Amy scowled. “He’s not my friend. He sent me a letter telling me that he won’t do my surgery.”

“That’s why I’m here. He wants you to come to Minnesota. He’s still doing as many surgeries as before. However, he’s very discreet in how he records them. You'll be having an ‘emergency appendectomy.’”

“I don’t think so,” Amy said. “I had my appendix removed years ago.”

“It grew back.” Billy laughed, as he pointed toward her crotch.

Amy blushed, finally realizing what he meant. “This is all too much,” Amy said with a sigh of relief. “Oh, dear. I can’t afford to pay the hospital. My bank account has been frozen; 1984 you know.”

“What’s been frozen can be thawed.”

“But I don’t know anyone who can vouch for me and you said. . .?”

“Amy, the underground has a lot of liberals within our ranks. There are quite a few conservatives, too. Gender-bending knows no political boundaries. But it’s the liberals that are important for freeing your bank account.”

“What? How?”

“You do know that all liberals are computer geniuses, don’t you?” He grinned, while Amy shrugged. “Sure, Al Gore, the founder of the internet, is our spiritual leader.”

Amy vaguely knew who Al Gore was, or had been, or might have been. Or, was Billy having a joke at her expense?

“We have people who can fix things,” Billy said.

“Like bank accounts?”

He nodded, and then he laughed. “Today the government is starting what they call “Operation Catch the Sissies.” They are mining the databanks at mail-order houses that specialize in plus sizes for ladies’ wear, to identify closet cross-dressers. They hope to prosecute thousands.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Exactly. Except we’ve hidden the information from them that they want and have replaced it with our list. We call our list ‘Dave.’”

“Dave?”

“Dave was the person who worked with the Hal 9000 computer in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. The Hal 9000 was the computer that got too smart for its own good.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Let’s just say that the government’s probe is going to find some very embarrassing purchases that were made by three cabinet members, four Supreme Court judges, and the vice president. That should teach them to keep their eyes where they belong.”

They both laughed.

Amy felt much better -- but became serious when she realized she still had problems. “Once I’m off the 1984 list and can get a passport, I can go back to England. That will be nice, I guess.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“I’d rather stay here. I’ve been looking forward to seeing my homeland.”

Billy also became serious. “The United States is a great country filled with great people, who have been misled. What started out as a wedge issue to get out the conservative vote, took on a life of its own. It’s horrible when hate comes to the surface.”

“Why did they ever pass such a horrible law as the Ethical Clothing Act?”

“It’s a bad law,” Billy said. “If you go back through history, you’ll find that the people who have been most eager to rule, to make the laws, to enforce the laws, and to tell everybody exactly how God Almighty wants things here on Earth — those people have forgiven themselves and their friends for anything and everything. But they have been absolutely disgusted and terrified by the natural sexuality of men and women. Why that is, I don’t know.”

“Do you think things will go back to how they were?”

“I’m sure of it. Why don’t you stay? Dr. Nation said that he’d love to find a spot for you on his staff.”

“I’m not certified, and I have a feeling the Dean of Students is poised to make my life miserable.”

“Do you really need more education to work effectively as a nurse for Dr. Nation?”

“Not really, I can always learn more, but I’m just putting in my time in college to get a piece of paper.”

“A piece of paper that’s generated by a computer.” Billy winked broadly.

Amy and Billy left the coffee house, and then walked to the front steps of Amy’s apartment building. As Billy explained Amy’s probable future, her heart lifted. He promised her another member of the underground would contact her within four or five hours to begin the process of making Amy Jayne Belmont a reality through computer magic.

Amy could feel Nancy’s eyes watching through her apartment’s window. As Amy hugged Billy, she realized she probably wouldn’t see Billy again AND she definitely wouldn’t miss the prying Nancy McLuhan.

She smiled as she raced into her apartment to strip the offensive jeans from her body. She vowed that in the future she would be amongst the millions of women who proudly complied with the Ethical Clothing Law. All of the nursing uniforms that she would wear while working in Doctor Nation’s hospital -- would be dresses.

The End

My apologies to Welcome to the Monkey House by the late Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. The longer paragraph of Billy’s dialogue, just above, is lifted word for word from that wonderful story, as are several character’s names.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

An Old West mining town receives an unexpected arrival and a startlin' predicament.

An Affair of the Harte
By Angela Rasch

Almost everyone left. Them who didn’t have the righteous sense to move on, had their pick of dozens of abandoned shacks by squatter’s rights. The mine, that was located close to our small town, at the far end of a five-mile-long, box canyon, had “petered out.” Keepin’ one’s “peter out” had been the wellspring that fostered the fix wherein we all found ourselves

Every whore, save one, had left when the gold vein dwindled to a trickle, which barely kept us in necessaries. At the height of the boom, it paid nearly ten thousand a foot.

That one young female who had stayed wasn’t the kind on which you would ever bestow such a scurrilous title as “whore.” Chastity had a 24-karat heart -- whilst the others had Babylon in their ancestry. Chastity’s parentage traced on back to the land of milk and honey.

Although they said she had “sab-bee” -- her fanciful nature prompted every man in our rapidly diminishin’ enclave to love her. The other hookers who had serviced us men would read books, play solitaire, or have their dinner whilst you did your business. They smiled only when you handed over your pouch -- in stark, and sometimes naked contrast to Chastity, who went clear around the long way to make you feel “u-neek.”

Each week, upon first seein’ a client’s manliness, she would utter that tiny staccato yelp of her sex, as if she were startled by its sheer mass. Miner after miner swore Chastity had been a virgin the first time they snookered down with her.

Monumental battles had been waged over her honor; four of which ended as fatal. You weren’t anyone in Pinewood Junction, if you didn’t have a scar to prove how highly you regarded her. Bickerin’ and fightin’ filled the long hours between shifts, in the shaft. Alcohol greased the path from brains to fists, in a camp populated by those who had sullenly turned their backs, on the effete civilization of the East.

Chastity didn’t believe in hooker monogamy, the kind we heard some kept-women in the big cities practiced. Her charm stemmed from never lettin’ on that anyone else in her whole, entire life had ever satisfied her – to the lengths you’d greatly managed.

Even men with their tools shriveled from a quick jump in the creek, to wash off a week’s stink, before bedding her, were told how “gigantic” she found them to be.

Not a one among us would have stopped short of stompin’ a rattler, treein’ a puma, or some such human sacrifice ceremony, for our blue-eyed lady of the evening.

Chastity would seduce you, so that you knew the only gift she wanted in life was a moment or two of bliss impaled on your “mighty lance”, or “steel pole”, or “giant snake.” She often times seemed like a buddin’ poet -- and told us of her dream to learn to read and write -- so as she could put down her notions.

Oakhurst offered to teach her a few words, but that was nixed by general consensus, given the kinda words Oakhurst allowed to slide like creek-moss from his festered tongue.

Although Chastity blushed ragingly when it came time to settle-up -- and termed your payment for services rendered as “such a nice and totally unexpected present” -- she did financially well for herself.

Many a miner dreamt of the wealth that eluded their pick and shovel and had designs of marryin’ her and livin’ the rest of their lives off what she had squirreled away in that rickety shed that functioned as a locale for both her home and “bidness.”

It came as no surprise -- on that morning when Chastity sluiced her breakfast for the fifth day in a row -- that bedlam broke out. Every man in Pinewood Junction staked his true and rightful claim as the legit father of the comin’ bundle of joy. Three lost fairly solid teeth defendin’ said paterdom.

The arguments and lost tempers went on for days. It was a cinch that one of us had done the familia deed, and equally undeniable that beyond speculation the impregnator could be anyone of the fourteen who still worked the mine. Each, exceptin’ maybe Antoine, enjoyed equal “access” and had driven home their personal pick with punctual practiced regularity.

As our tiny town stood at least thirty miles from any livin’ soul -- and that soul being a mountain man who seemingly preferred goats -- we each had a one-in-fourteen claim to the child and lifetime partnership with the girl of our dreams. . .and her sparklin’ riches. The only other soul we ever saw was the leathery, old gal muleskinner who brought supplies and hauled out our ore, once a month. And, she lacked man seeds.

Most of us had been through the Civil War and felt we had used-up all our luck gettin’ through that mess with our being and most of our limbs. Hence, nobody gave any thought to settlin’ the issue of fatherhood by lot, or through any other such game or contest, except for Oakhurst, a cardshark who no one would bet with -- on anything. He had missed that part of gambler’s school where they taught the basic guidelines of partial fairness that kept your trout coming back for another shot at the worm.

Chastity took to her delicate condition like tomato sauce to Sicilian spaghetti. As her stomach swelled, her smile and natural beauty likewise grew. She appeared to be the healthiest of us all, in a camp of downright robust human beings -- whose greatest maladies were an occasional lethal day-after and lumps caused by flyin’ fists. We hovered around her -- seeing to her every need and whim.

When she craved waffles -- one of the men made flapjacks, and then carved them to the unique shape criss-cross -- and browned them in a pan to crisp them up.

One of the less-sensitive of the group asked Chastity if she had womenfolk, to be with her at the time of the expected one’s birth. The clouds that ascended on her otherwise always angelic face told us she was on her own. The mouthy cur who had asked the unwarranted question was soundly kicked in the arse, by all within earshot.

There was talk of bringing in a doctor -- or a midwife, but Chastity just laughed and told all she came from a “long line of squat-and-droppers.” Not eager to discuss such female problems, we accepted her wisdom -- so when complications arose, we were at a complete loss to provide succor.

“Gopher,” so named for his annoyin’ and filthy habit of sucking on a blade of grass when one never knew who had pee’d where -- tended to Chastity during her ordeal. At her passing, we were struck with the want to celebrate over the wonder of the birth of the child -- and the need to mourn.

To dispel our melancholy, Gopher assured us the child was healthy, exceptin’ for one small problem.

“Is my child a boy?” Shuffles asked, ignorin’ the begged question. For his impertinence as to whom the child belonged, he would have been rewarded with a two-by-four alongside his head had we not outlawed “swingin’ lumber” at camp meetings, after the need to legislate restraint became all too obvious.

Gopher shook his head slowly from side to side. “That’s the problem.”

“Then ssshe’sss a girl,” Gap said, whistling on hissssss s’s. “Thass no problem. Golly -- a little girl would be great. Chasssstity sssaid ssshe favored a girl.”

A hush fell over the assembly as we paid homage to the dear departed.

Everyone yanked off their hat and bowed their heads.

After we had respected enough, Gopher spoke again. “That little cuss’s cute as a button, but I’m sayin’ you just can’t tell.”

“Kin’t tell?” I asked, afraid, for sure, I knew what he spoke to.

He shook his head.

I took a gander myself and was staggered by the sight. It clearly would not do. I recovered and shrugged.

“Jerusalem,” Lefty howled. “If’n you two jackasses can’t tell, you’d best step aside and allow someone in there who’s not an idgit.”

Lefty — who hadn’t come back from war as whole as he would’ve liked, having lost most of his right arm to a surgeon’s hacksaw, at Gettysburg — pushed through the crowd. He spent two long minutes, by my gold railroad pocket watch, starin’ at the little one’s privates. “Can’t honestly tell,” he said, “but I’m fairly sure it’s a boy.”

“Shit,” I said with utter disregard for Lefty’s legendary fits of temper, “I wasn’t quite certain, but if I had to say. . .that baby’s a girl.”

“We gots to make up our minds, one way or the other,” Peckerhead hollered.

Skunk moved close enough to shave Peckerhead with his sharp chin. “Why do we ‘gots to’ -- you whistledick no-account?”

“Ya,” Kentuck added, while starin’ at Peckerhead in the way a mountain lion eyes a fawn before havin’ lunch, “Whistledick the bug f____r — why do we ‘gots to’?”

“It’s the law,” Rummy interjected. Rummy had once been a big deal lawyer’er, but after one of his criminal clients got hung, and then later the real killer confessed -- he took to a life of insobriety. “A baby’s got to be legally classified on the birth certificate as male -- or a female. No matter what dreadful impediment weighs us down, we must strive to meet the letter of the law.”

“F___ the law,” Antoine said with a slight French accent, which we all thought was his way of trying to convince everyone he wasn’t interested in men. Antoine was a good enough fellow, but he lacked manliness. He said he was French, but we all thought he was truly Greek, and no one jumped into the creek for a bath -- if he was already washin’ hisself. “We make our own horny-handed laws,” he added.

Antoine had that right as rain. We had quite a few laws -- other places didn’t have, like the one about no two-by-fours at meetings.

And, we had also done away with several laws we thought were utter nonsense. Fer instance -- the one about not stealin’ another man’s wife. None of us were married; and we all thought such a law was unfairly discriminatory -- should we ever have opportunity thrust our way.

Antoine, although popular with a few men for reasons no one cared to suspect, once had been the subject of a town vote.

We had been decidin’ if we should purge ourselves of improper persons -- him being “improper.”

I voted to rid us, but when it seemed like “gettin’ rid” meant hangin’ him, me and four others changed our votes and the matter was tabled for another time.

Rummy stood up, which started a round of betting as to how long he could remain vertical, although no one laid as much as a dime with Oakhurst — fearin’ a fix. “Let me get this straight. Are you sayin’ we ain’t goin’ to issue a proper birth certificate for this baby?”

Antoine giggled.

His nervous little laugh caused everyone’s skin to crawl, even those not covered with lice.

“S'il vous plait. Is there anyones in this camp with a birth certificate?”

We all looked around nervously. Ignorance of the law had cost many of us dearly, over the years. No one wanted to be the first to admit a possible jailable failin’. Given the sanctity of the moment, with birth and death and all, one by one we all stammered a confession of being certificateless.

“Theeen it is settled.” Antoine had asserted himself, which Chastity had affirmed he did in private with her, after his manhood had been challenged; even though most of us felt she had sweetly covered for him.

I took off my hat, which told everyone I had silently thought of Chastity and was showin’ my respect; so general quietude and bare heads broke out again.

Skunk broke the silence with a fart, which was his habit. “We should at least be democrats about it. Let’s vote on the ‘lil cuss’ sex.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m suspectin’ this isn’t ballotable under any constitutional law.”

For a second, I thought my brilliant argument had carried the day, but Rummy’s subsequent “Tarnation!” trumped my reason.

We had slopped down whiskey to celebrate the birth of the baby, and then we imbibed during the impromptu wake for Chastity. Finally, we tossed down a few as the hair-of-the-dog. As had become our custom, whiskey ran freely during any town meetings, which gave reason for some of the fighting -- and all of the popularity of them assemblies. “Tarnation” and “G__ D___” accounted for a large percentage of the lively debate.

Wouldn’t you know it — after five secret ballots, and four hours of ensuing deliberation, including a motion to waive the two-by-four law, the vote remained deadlocked at seven to seven. Half of us saw the kid as a female; and the other half knew without a doubt that “he” was a boy.

“Shit.” Rummy said for all of us, which was only right, as he had made a living with his mouth. “Fuck!”

I took off my hat and everyone else did likewise.

A bird picked that wrong second to twitter and four of us chucked rocks at it.

For the next fifteen minutes, miner after miner looked over the infant and offered their “expert” opinion. Many of them had placed bets weeks ago as to the sex of the unborn, and much-anticipated child -- and now were hunkerin’ down to protect their position.

I slipped out and brought back a case of mind-expandin’ whiskey, as I could plainly see the need.

Bottles were passed from lip to lip with no discerned need for a glass or cup.

Kentuck stood. “I don’t give a rat-shit as long as the little tyke stays healthy. Buts — we need to know what to teach the baby, in preparin’ for life.”

An all-out donnybrook broke loose.

Those of us which could teach “him” to wrestle, shoot, and hunt asserted our rights. Only to have others come up with fool ideas that they were a-thinkin’ were better suited. The only way to settle an argument about wrestlin’ is to roll around together on the ground, which we did.

Them, like Antoine, who were so inclined, offered to give “her” cookin’ and sewin’ lessons, which met with little competition, but when Antoine said he would give “her” dance instructions Oakhurst first spit, and then spoke.

“Fairies dance.” From his tone, you could tell he hadn’t meant magical critters.

“Zat’s a low down thing to say. You take zat back,” Antoine stammered, with indignation. When Oakhurst would not -- Antoine flitted across the floor and slapped him. In the ensuing brawl, we were treated to an astoundin’ contrast in combative styles. Antoine brought a curious mixture of scratchin’, kickin’, slappin’, and bitin’ to the melee, while Oakhurst preferred a more traditional style, for a man. They rolled, screamin’ in the anemone, syringas, lupines, and azaleas.

Neither could claim a clear victory when they finally quit out of pure tuckered-outedness.

Between each legitimate skirmish, we verbally argued about the child’s gender.

The only thing we agreed upon was the child would stay with us. With some it was greed for the heir’s gold, for others it was the closest thing to paternal love I had seen since St. Louis.

At one point, the baby started to cry.

“He’s hungry,” Kentuck opined. “We should milk that female ass and feed the little cuss.”

“Now you see,” Stumpy said, “you just made my point. It be important to know what sex something is. You wouldn’t milk an ass, if you didn’t know what sex it was — would you? I’d like to see one of you jackasses try.”

That remarkably stupid observation touched off a disgustin’ battle that caused us all to forget about the baby’s hunger.

Eight hours later, we had worked our way through to a squabble about the baby’s teen years, should the child not be able to decide its own sex. It had been posited that a determination would have to be made before the next war, so the baby would know if he would have to don a uniform or keep the home fires lit.

“How will the baby know to look for a woman or a man, when it comes time for sex?” Rummy had asked THE question.

No one said a word until Kentuck, a confirmed and much-admired drunkard, started in agin’ on Antoine. “There are some of us here that have first-hand knowledge on not knowin’ a man from a woman. . .when they’re in heat.”

Three hours later, after a brawl that swelled to include as many as nine participants, Kentuck had discovered what Oakhurst had already found out about the potency of girl-fightin’.

We were all, more or less under the influence of amber liquid and suffered no pain when struck or otherwise.

“Pass out” and “feud” were the watchwords and spirit of those days. I hadn’t experienced such hostility, since we ran out of tobacco several months back.

“She,” I said pointedly, “is going to be a girly-girl and will need a pink house.”

Lefty tossed a whiskey bottle just right of my ear. “It ain’t my style to pee on your’n Fourth of July parade, but no boy is going to live in a pink house -- and ’sides we ain’t got no pink paint.”

I quickly ascertained the bottle he had chucked had been an empty and thusly forgave his rash moment of inconsiderateness to my well-being. “We got lots of whitewash.” I stood and put my nose an inch from his’n. “We’ll jest mix some of your rotten blood in and it’ll be pink as a rabbit’s ass.”

During the epic battle that ensued, I recalled it’s a rabbit’s nose that’s pink.

I thought about gettin’ my gun and fightin’ him to death, after he hit me for the umpteenth time, but gunfights in our town were pretty much laughable as no one could hit anything with a pistol at more than fifteen paces and shooting at each other with rifles was considered chick’nshit. Using a shotgun, while practical, drew intimidatin’ frowns.

About that time, Chastity’s carcass started to reek to high hell. Kentuck reckoned it had been four days since the birth/death.

Before we could get a real good cremation-versus-burial debate boilin’ Stumpy walked amidst us with tears streamin’ down his face. “The d_____d little cuss ain’t movin.”

The fear of the consequences of our stupidity crep up and knocked us all.

“They get like that when you don’t feed them,” Rummy said, and then passed out, agin.

***

We all left that worthless mining town, after dynamitin’ the shaft.

Before going, some of the more articulate and learn’d posted a carved wooden tombstone over the baby’s grave. Its somber words barely reached our sorrow.

“Here lies a babe who’d the serious misfortunes 2 be born amongs dumbass men who thought it more impirtant to carry-on about things that duzn’t matter, not tendin’ to things that do.”

The End

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Jessica left Eloise a decade ago, and then fulfilled a lifetime dream. She had made a break with her past -- but is filled with anxiety when an invitation to her high school reunion manages to find her.

And It Feels So Good
By Angela Rasch

I read it as a positive omen. The invitation to my fortieth high school reunion had somehow found me, even though they used the address from five residences ago -- and, of course, my name had been legally changed for a decade, or so.

Ginger and I left a forwarding address with the apartment management when we purchased our home nearly thirty years ago, but who would have thought they would still have it on file?

My ex-spouse and I haven’t talked much since the divorce and the ensuing custody battles. Even though it’s been over a decade, some scabs are best left undisturbed. I hadn’t received mail from her in all those years -- and wouldn’t expect to. Yet, she took the time to forward the letter to me from my old high school classmate. Perhaps she delighted in the conundrum such a letter would present.

As far as I knew, no one from my high school knew that I had transitioned, but the time had finally arrived.

Even though I attended high school in a town sixty miles west of the Twin Cities, the organizational committee had decided to hold our reunion at a hotel in Minneapolis. The letter explained that so since many of my classmates lived in the Cities, it just made sense. Also, for those like me, flying in from other parts of the country, Minneapolis would be much easier to travel to than our small town.

As my limo sped along I-494 from the airport to the hotel, I checked my face in the lighted mirror and smiled at my reflection. I looked good. The SRS had been a fountain of youth and my daily regimen of exercise, proper diet, and a dozen or so lotions and creams kept me looking “forty-ish.”

A huge sign floated above the hotel lobby.

Welcome Hawks!

I had been a sports nut in high school and had worn out two Hawks’ lettermen’s jackets. Looking down at my size six body I wondered where the forty pounds had gone from my playing days as a safety, on the football team. Thank goodness our coach hadn’t believed in weight training. Losing all my excess body fat had been hard. But keeping it off comes naturally.

I had written back to the reunion committee telling them “Bob” Wilke no longer existed -- and to send future correspondence to “Jessica” Wilke at my new address. It had been a big step disclosing my change, but it felt good to finally do it.

The registration confirmation letter said over one hundred of the 172 in my graduating class would be attending. I had picked ten I really wanted to see and quickly narrowed that short list down to -- one.

John and I had been best friends and played football, basketball, and track together. He ran faster, but I wanted to win more, so we competed fairly equally.

Our friendship had cracked one blustery winter night, during our senior year. The two of us had spent a laugh-filled night playing board games. Ron and Greg had promised to play with us, but both failed to show. They could normally be counted on when they said they would do something, but Ron got called into work stocking shelves at the supermarket and Greg remembered a last-minute paper he had to write for advanced composition.

John and I had played Stat football, which involved special cards, dice, a football marker, and a gridiron board. We played that game so many times during our high school years that the veneer on the coffee table in their basement had worn through from tossed dice.

That night, his team came from behind on the last dice roll of the game when he ran the only play he could have won on, and I played the absolute wrong defense. Even with that rare combination of events, he still had to roll boxcars for a winning touchdown, which he did.

At the door, he did his normal good night routine by turning his back to me and grabbing himself, in an embrace. From the back, it looked like there was someone passionately hugging him. He made it sound even more authentic with loud kissing noises.

We both had steady girlfriends and considered ourselves super-hetero. Although — I had my little, secret desire to be a girl and he registered mega-cute on anyone’s meter.

“What a great kiss!” He said, sighing and coming out of his self-love.

I laughed. “You don’t even know what a great kiss is. Ann tells me my kisses are super.”

“Super?” He smirked. “Are you sure Ann didn’t say ‘stupor?’”

“No. She said s-u-p-e-r. Here let me show you.” I had meant it to be a joke as I moved in on him and expected him to duck away in mock horror.

But instead, he stood his ground with a strange look on his face.

I should have backed down, but it had become a machismo thing, so I went through with it and kissed him. At first, I had continued it as a joke, but then our raging teenage hormones kicked in and we both got into it. I’m not sure how long our kiss lasted, but when it was over, I glanced down and saw two very aroused penises straining at the front of our tan Levis.

I turned and tore out of his front door, struggling to find my way through anxious confusion and a roaring blizzard.

We never spoke of that night, but John and I made sure to never be alone -- together -- again. We went to different colleges and saw each other only occasionally, over the summers. After college, I went east and he moved to St. Louis.

My plan for the reunion was to finally seduce him, if at all possible. Over the years, he had been the object of hundreds of my masturbation fantasies. My imagined life with him had grown to the point where we had children, with names and complex little lives.

At the registration desk, I immediately checked the list of attendees. “Will John Ulte be coming?” I sincerely hope he will — in me.

The women behind the desk looked familiar. I hadn’t quite picked up on reunion etiquette. I had looked in her eyes when I should have peered at her nametag.

“He’s registered, but he hasn’t checked in yet. I’m sorry I have to ask, but — your name is. . .?”

I finally found my way to the name pasted to her chest. “Susan Height. You’re Susan Height!” Susan Height (Krokowski) had sat next to me in junior physics. We had dated a few times but hadn’t really struck up a relationship.

“That’s right,” she smiled, “but, the thing is — I need your name so I can check you in.” Susan had always been a little anal and evidently hadn’t changed much.

“I’m Jessica . . . Jessica Wilke.” I extended my hand toward her, trying to be friendly, but she looked down at her list without accepting my greeting. I swallowed hard and prepared myself for a put-down.

“Wilke? Hmmm. I don’t remember a Jessica . . . Ah, here you are. You’re Bob’s wife, Jessica. We were so-o-o sorry to get your letter about Bob passing. Bob and I were close in high school. We dated.”

Sorry? Bob’s wife? Good friend? The nametag she gave me said, “Mrs. Bob Wilke (Jessica).”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s been a. . ..”

“Oh, I love your bag,” she gushed.

I had decided to use my white, leather, Fendi purse. Others I might have chosen would have been more stylish, but not large enough for traveling.

“I’ve been saving up to buy one like that,” she simpered. “Where did you go to find one that looks so authentic?”

Ahhhhhh. The games have begun. In that last moment, she had made all the planning and care I had taken to look my best - worthwhile. “I just picked it off the rack at Neiman Marcus. Donna is such a great little helper. When I come in, she drops everything, because I’m so useless when I try to shop by myself.”

Her eyes registered the proper respect. I took pleasure in winning round one. But felt slightly embarrassed I had stooped so low.

I picked up the catalog envelope with my name on it and noted the schedule posted on a placard on the table. “I see dinner is at 6:30. Two hours will give me time enough to take a nap.”

She nodded. Her lop-sided smile indicated “Mrs. Bob Wilke” would be topic “A” with her girlfriends.

I glanced around the lobby and saw one or two others who looked like they might be the “silver editions” of my classmates -- but saw none that could be John.

A bellman approached with my luggage and escorted me to suite 718. My fear of heights prevented me from renting a penthouse suite, but I had taken their finest, below the tenth floor.

After securing his promise that room service would freshen my outfit for the evening, I gave him a tip that would assure he would see to my needs. He was about the right age and either well-endowed or carrying a huge bundle of keys in a strange place. I caressed his hand lightly to cover my bases should everything else fail.

I sat upright in an overstuffed chair, so as not to mess my hair -- but tried to catch a short nap. The encounter downstairs had sharpened many memories of high school. I had been relatively happy and good-looking enough to have my pick of the girls . . . but not so handsome I could escape the occasional turndown. I avoided sex, because I didn’t want to knock up some loser, and then be tied down for life.

Girls interpreted my chastity as a sign of respect.

My sports career had been spotty -- a varsity player in three sports, but certainly not a star.

Thank God I hadn’t gotten my wish in grade school and grown extra-tall for basketball. As things have turned out, I look perfect in high-heels. So many of those in my transition support group have been doomed to a life in flats.

Each of my operations had gone well. My plastic surgeon could only be termed a genius. My wife said, at one of our court appearances, that I looked like a stranger to her. Not once, since I had recovered after the final procedure, had anyone perceived me as remotely male, including an army of lovers. Each one had been affirmation I greedily lavished upon myself.

The error the reunion organizers made on my nametag offered an option I hadn’t considered -- I could bide my time, and then “expose” myself, when, and if, I wanted. The idea of spending the evening as “Mrs. Bob Wilke” held tremendous appeal. It would be like attending your own funeral and listening to the mourners. I only really cared to see John -- and he would be the one person who had to know.

When I selected my Gucci dress I had wondered if it might be a bit too much.

Donna said fuchsia brought out my best features. When I showed my purchase to my personal trainer, he had said, “That little dress is lucky to have found you. You’re the only woman who could do it justice.”

He is such a dear! I love silk. And, the georgette, open-back styling seems so right.

In the end, I decided I deserved to wear the gown -- given everything I had gone through, to accomplish what I had.

When I entered the ballroom, which would provide the setting for both the banquet and the following dance, Susan practically galloped to my side.

“Jessica,” she brayed, “you just have to meet some of Bob’s friends.” She dragged me by the hand toward a group of women who were grasping their drinks with obvious ardor. “Girls, this is Jessica . . . Bob Wilke’s wife.”

“You’re gorgeous,” the first woman cooed.

I recognized Barbara immediately. She went hippie after high school and had dressed for the evening in a collage of fabric that appeared a little like Annie Hall on hormones.

Barbara continued. “Bob always had an eye for the lookers. I was so sorry to hear he passed on. He was one of my best friends.”

As I recall, Barbara’s best friends in college were a one-eyed cat named Franko and a bong she called “Bigboy.”

“Nice to meet you, Barbara. Bob told me a lot about you. He considered you to be like a sister to him.”

I had cast my lot as Bob’s wife, for at least the next few hours.

“I’m Joellen,” a big-breasted blonde breathed toward me. She had either knocked back straight vodka -- or jet fuel. Joellen came out of the closet in college. The way her hand rested on mine gave me the indication she had more than a little interest. Maybe her eyes showed some recognition, but they quickly left my face for my breasts.

“Bob had nice things to say about you, too,” I said. Nice and horny things. Long before John took on the role of my Dreamland McSteamy, she had stirred my melting pot.

“We switched things around, so you could sit with us,” Susan said, letting me know just how much reunion clout she wielded. “Catherine just got bumped from the fur-er-runt table.”

The three women giggled like junior high meanies.

Joellen took me by the arm toward the banquet area. “MMMMmm. I love women who wear Bijan. I guess I just love spicy women. How about you?”

Joellen's flowery Tresor clashed with my plans for the evening, but I kept the “Jolly-Roll” option open by squeezing her hand lightly and bouncing my tush against hers as we walked.

Our table consisted of Susan, Barbara, Joellen, me, and Ann and her husband, who unfortunately had the surname of Rand.

“I didn’t write The Fountainhead,” Ann wryly apologized before anyone asked.

“That’s good, darling,” Joellen quipped, “because it was published fifteen years before any of us were born.”

Ann’s nose wrinkled like a bunny, one of the things I had hated about her when we dated.

We sat in our assigned spots, seconds before our salads found a place in front of us.

Susan dug right in. “Jessica,” she pointed her fork at a spot near my left nostril, “Bob never came to the reunions. This is our fifth.”

“That’s right,” Barbara bubbled. “We had a fifth year, a tenth, a twentieth, and a thirtieth.”

Joellen clutched my thigh under the table with unhidden meaning. “Each one has become a lot less proper and a whole lot more fun.”

Ann’s husband looked at something over my shoulder, but obviously directed his response to me. “You’re going to have to excuse these girls, they’re almost ready to burst with curiosity. If I know them, you’re going to get asked more than a few questions that will seem inappropriate.”

Susan nudged him with her elbow. “Nothing’s ‘inappropriate’ at these reunions. Do you remember what you said last reunion when Elizabeth’s zipper broke?” She grinned and turned to me. “He said, without a moment’s thought, ‘It’s about time you opened up.’”

I managed a grin -- but didn’t see the immense humor. I sipped on a Diet Coke and probably never would find hilarity in something, or someone, so dull.

“Okay, I’ll ask it, so no one else has to,” Barbara said, dragging her words together, through a lifetime of cannabis haze. “Are you a trophy wife?”

Few things have caused me to blush, for the last many years, but that did the trick.

“Come on. . .answer,” Joellen demanded, as her hand ran eager fingertips from my knee to my waist.

I could spend the night with her. Women had often found their way to my bed.

About the only sexual partners I can’t enjoy are gay men.

Joellen leaned in close to me and nibbled on my ear before she pulled back and spoke. “You’re about fifteen years younger than all of us, so you must be something Bob found, after he made all his money.”

“Uh-huh,” Susan brightened, “how did Bob make all his money?”

“Bob was only married once, and he was in import/export,” I answered. “Bob” had founded his own business shortly after college and built it slowly around a core of very loyal staff. When the time had been right to transition, I had sold the business.

Unfortunately, some of those people were immediately let go by the new owner. But I had needed to get top dollar to pay for the SRS and everything. . .and to set up my “retirement.”

“Did you work with him?” Ann asked. She hadn’t looked at her husband all evening. It was painfully obvious she couldn’t stand him.

When Ginger and I had gone out together, we couldn’t keep our eyes, or our hands, off each other. She was my soulmate. I closed my eyes and pictured her the last time I had seen her . . . in court . . . when she had won a permanent injunction to keep me away from our children. She had looked absolutely stunning that day, as always.

“My spouse and I worked very closely,” I offered.

A main course of meat had been generously described as filet mignon. They served the green beans and baked potatoes cold and without seasoning. My dish had a large chip and the silverware was stained, so that I wanted to wipe it with my napkin, which also showed signs of too much use.

“Do you have children?” Ann asked. “We tried for years and then gave up. I don’t know why we never adopted.”

Children? I frowned as I thought of Becca and Reese. I hadn’t seen so much as a picture, in the last decade. I hid my mouth behind a napkin, until I could plaster a smile on my lips. “Two — a boy and a girl.”

Susan whistled. “How did you keep your figure after two kids? Each of my three boys added ten pounds to me, and not where I wanted them.”

After that, they let me off the hot seat, and it had been firmly established that high school personalities do not change over the decades, the conversation turned to the Vikings’ football prospects. My mind drifted to my life with Ginger. She had been as positive as any woman could be about my nature, even though, from time to time, I would do something that would embarrass her.

A neighbor had seen me walking one morning en femme and cornered Ginger about it. Becca, at three, had walked in on me while I was dressed in a nightgown and gone screaming to her mother. Several times, I had made Halloween very uncomfortable for Ginger, by the obvious ease I felt while decked out in front of our friends as Chris Evert or Dolly Parton.

We had forged an understanding that she broke when it came time for me to be true to myself. I had expected we would remain married. I thought I would be a second mom to our kids. She refused to be logical and had cruelly ripped our lives to shreds.

God only knows what it did to Reese and Becca, to grow up with only one parent.

“There’s John,” Susan yelped. “Jessica, you’d asked about John.” She pointed three tables away. “Boy is he looking tasty. Jessica, did you have a particular reason you wanted to meet him?”

I shook my head -- partially to tell Susan “no” -- and mainly to clear the sexual fog from my brain. Seeing John had caused my thoughts to seize. He looked yummy. All desire to hook up with the bellboy or Joellen had been swept from my mind.

My mission to finally live out my fantasies had become perfectly clear.

As soon as our mint ice cream slabs had been consumed, the band started a rendition of Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night. I cast aside all inhibitions and floated to John’s table.

“John,” I said, as I tapped him on the shoulder, “. . .care to dance?”

He looked at my nametag and then locked in on my face. “Bob’s . . .?”

“I’d love to dance with you.” I cut him off and then wondered what it was he had been ready to ask.

He stood and took my hand.

I glanced around the table he had been sitting at and was relieved to find no sign of a woman.

The dance started with him holding me at arm’s-length. Mrs. Gassman would have approved. She had chaperoned our high school dances and always said she wanted to see sunlight between us while we slow-danced.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked.

I nodded. Immensely so, now that he has violated Mrs. Gassman’s edict and pulled me to him.

“You haven’t been to one of these before, have you?”

I shook my head. But didn’t raise it off his shoulder - where it had found a comfy home.

The band moved quickly from one slow song to another, having accurately gauged the requirements of the pentagenarian crowd.

Each song heightened my need for John’s arms around me. Every step moved us closer to the king-sized bed in room 718. The foreplay from forty years prior, at the door of his parents’ house, had left embers in my soul that quickly burst into flame when his breath rushed into my ear.

I forced myself not to grind my hot sex into his groin, sensing we would have a long night to enjoy one another.

If he had a wife, she couldn’t possibly be attending the reunion, or she would have torn my eyes out, after the second song. If she did exist, I would deal with her in the morning. John would be mine, for at least a few hours, and more than likely much, much longer.

I was ready to leave after the band’s first set. “John, would you like to have a drink, in my room?”

“I’d love to,” he said. “Let me get my husband, Louis, and the three of us can go up and have a talk and catch up on things. Forty years is a long time for good friends not to see each other.”

The End

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Rudy strolls through life looking for the right opportunities to express herself.

When I first posted this story fourteen years ago, its theme was the foolishness of mankind. Now I realize the story is really about how persistent our true nature can be.
 

 

 
We had just finished a yummy meal of ham and potatoes and the three of us sat in front of our really, really big Christmas tree opening presents. I felt all snuggly in my new jammies.

Mommy said Doctor Denton made them ‘specially for me.

He sure must like pink. “Why did Santa bring me a doll for Christmas Eve?”

“Yes, Mildred,” Daddy asked, setting down his eggs-snog. “I’m curious about that myself.”

I giggled whenever Daddy called Mom “Mildred.” Usually, when Daddy said it, it sounded like singing a Christmas song, but tonight he didn’t sound very Christmas-sy.

Mom smiled at Daddy in that way she smiles at me when I eat my carrots. “Ruby, when we were in the Five and Dime the other day, you said you liked Raggedy Ann.”

“No, Mommy. I said I thought Raggedy Ann looked cute, but I never said I liked her.” But I do like her. I just don’t know how I can ever, ever play with her and not make Daddy yell at me, but I’ll think real hard to find a way.

She messed my hair.

Mommy said I’ll have to get my first haircut someday. I like the way my curls tickle the sides of my cheeks.

Then she pushed Raggedy Ann into my arms. “Santa knows best, Ruby.”

“Mildred, please! The boy is already confused enough about things. His name is Rudy – not Ruby.”

Mommy laughed.

She sounds so much like the angel in the story we listened to on the radio.

“Frank — it’s just a joke between Rudy and me. He likes to be called Ruby sometimes; and it doesn’t hurt anything.” She turned toward me. “Sweetie, maybe Santa got confused on his ‘naughty or nice’ list and put your name down as ‘Ruby’ for one of your gifts.”

“Or, maybe the error was made by one of Santa’s gay elves,” Daddy said. Daddy then did a funny thing with his hand, bending all of his fingers and his wrist down.

“What do you mean ‘gay?’” Mommy asked Daddy.

“‘Gay.’ Like Cary Grant said in the motion picture show we went to at the Orpheum the other night.”

“Ohhhh, Bringing Up Baby,” Mommy replied. “That’s so crude, Frank. Kindly don’t use words like that around Ruby.”

“Rudy!” Dad said my name so loud he made me jump.

As much as I really tried not to -- I started to cry.

“Ohhh, Honey.” Mommy pulled me up onto her lap and folded me into her arms.

I didn’t want to stain her pretty dress with my tears, but I just had to collapse into her.

“There, there, Ruby. Daddy’s sorry he scared you.”

I looked through my tears at Daddy.

He looked plenty sorry, as he fiddled with his pipe -- knocking tobacco all over the place. “Tell you what, Rudy.” Daddy finally got his pipe going. He puffed on it, while I waited for him to continue.

The smoke smells sweet, but not half as nice as Mommy’s “Paris” perfume. She had dabbed a little on me one day, and it smelled like living in heaven with all the saints.

“Did you see the Lionel Hiawatha electric train set, when you were shopping?” Daddy asked me.

“Frank, that’s not an appropriate toy for a five-year-old boy.”

“And a doll is?”

“Be reasonable, Frank. Maybe Rudy would like the Minnie and Mickey handcar set.”

I sniffed and Mommy rubbed my nose with a Kleenex tissue.

Daddy stood over Mommy and pointed the end of his pipe at her. “Rudy is our only child and will always be our only child. He's our only chance at being good parents. The son of the vice-president of the Springfield branch of the Havertown Bank can have a Hiawatha. What about it, Rudy? Since Santa got his wires crossed and gave you a girl’s present, how about you have your Mommy send that dopey doll back to Santa, and then you and I buy you a big boy’s train?”

I wanted my Raggedy Ann doll as much as anything in the world and hugged her tight to me, but I wanted my Daddy’s love more. So. . ..

***

Cynthia’s room seemed like it belonged on a whole other continent. A “continent” is another world a long way away. We learned about Africa yesterday, with all its lions and wild people. Mrs. Crosby said we would learn about somewhere called Asia on Monday. She said by the end of next week we would know everything -- about everywhere. That would be nice, in case I want to travel when the War gets done. Third grade is a lot more fun than second grade had been.

Cynthia’s room didn’t look like Africa at all. It probably should have been called “Girlland.” She had sent me to her room to get the Monopoly board game from her closet, while she helped Aunt Rosella make chocolate chip cookies. I couldn’t wait to eat one -- but for now, I busily stared at Cynthia’s party dress. She wore her play clothes to help cook and had her dress ready to wear later. Its shiny material felt like clouds in my hands. Pink like an Easter egg, it had a big white bow that tied in the back and a wide, white collar.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

I jumped and the dress fell away from my fingers to sway accusingly from its hanger.

“I. . ..” I wanted to hide until my face quit burning.

“That’s okay, Rudy,” Aunt Rosella said gently. “In this house, it’s okay for boys to look at nice things and appreciate them.”

Last week, I had gotten a paddling from Dad for saying something stupid. Mom had worn her new dress, the first one she had been able to purchase since the War started. Dad was going to drive us to dinner in a restaurant, even though he only got three gallons of gas a week, which wasn’t right because the town would be pretty sad without a good bank. Mom said that’s how rationing is, and we had to live with it.

I had gotten excited -- like Dad says I do too much. My voice went too high and my hands waved all over the place, even though Daddy’s been working on that with me, too. Without even thinking I blurted out, “Momma, your dress is beautiful. I wish I had one just like it.”

Dad had taken the strap to me, and really blistered my hide for that one.

I smiled at Aunt Rosella because I knew she wouldn’t ever think about spanking me.

Daddy said my cousin Cynthia got away with murder, which might be why she and I fought so much.

A good spanking might hurt but it seemed to be the only way for me to learn, at least that’s what Daddy often said.

“Would you like to try it on?” She asked.

“What!” I couldn’t believe my ears.

Of course, I want to try it on. Just once I want to know how it feels to be pretty and for a moment, or so, feel a dress bobbing around me like it does the girls in my class. I love to watch them skipping in their dresses -- imagining what I would feel like, if I could be like them.

“You can, if you want.” Her lips had been painted red like the big fire truck Daddy had given me for Christmas last year.

Two weeks before Christmas he had sat me down for a man-to-man talk and settled all that “crap” about Santa Claus.

I played with the truck just enough so that he thought I liked it.

“Are you sure?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t laugh at me for even considering such a thing.

She took the dress down from the back of the door and held it up against me.

My knees buckled a little as its magic jumped into my body.

“It would be a little big for you -- but not too bad. We could shut the door and pop it on and off you in seconds. You could see how you look in Cynthia’s mirror.”

Cynthia! I checked, by looking around Aunt Rosella, to see if Cynthia had followed her mother into the room.

Aunt Rosella took a step toward me. “No one would ever know but you and me.” She set the dress on the bed and gave me one of her super-duper hugs.

“But — Cynthia would tease. . ..”

“Not if she wants to have her birthday party later today -- or ever again.” Aunt Rosella could be super kind, but everyone respected her word -- as law.

The dress sat waiting on the bed. It was everything I had dreamed about for years. It would be so easy to pull off my shirt and trousers and. . .. “Daddy wouldn’t like it.”

“There are things your Dad does that I don’t particularly like. Besides, he’s at work and will never know.”

She sounds like Aunt Rosella, but she has to be Lucifer dressed up like Aunt Rosella . . . tempting me with such a sinful idea.

“It’s really a nice. . ..” I stroked the soft material with my hand, noticing how nice my skin looked against the pink silk.

“Good then, I’ll help you.”

As her hands grabbed the bottom of my shirt, I yanked myself away. “No.” My eyes stung with great big tears rolling down my cheeks. “No, no, no. . .."

I ran from the room and didn’t stop until I had gone out her front door and all the way to the plum grove behind the garage. I hid there, until long after they had gotten tired of looking for me.

***

“Mildred and I have been looking forward to this all year,” Aunt Rosella said.

We had just finished listening to a ball game on the radio. Aunt Rosella made life fun by allowing me to stay up to hear the last out. Dad always sent me “off to bed, you sleepyhead” after the sixth inning no matter even if Boston was playing, with Ted Williams due up in the next inning.

My cousin Cynthia and I had traded places for a whole two weeks. She and I didn’t get along so good. I was already thirteen, but even though her birthday came ten months after mine, she had always been bigger and liked to bully me around.

Mom always had wanted a daughter and Dad hated it when I did things with her, so Mom solved the problem this year by “adopting” Cynthia as her daughter for two weeks.

At the same time, I was scheduled to take Cynthia’s place with Aunt Rosella.

Uncle Walter hadn’t come back from the War.

Mom said Aunt Rosella got a big check from the government. But she said the money had “blood on it.”

Aunt Rosella took my hand. “You will be staying in Cynthia’s room.”

Those seven words made my heart stop. I hadn’t even considered the possibilities. Cynthia’s room -- a treasure house of all-things-girl that could help my every fantasy come to life.

After a scrumptious meal of pork and applesauce with corn and baked potatoes, Aunt Rosella made me take a bath to “wash the dust off from my train ride.”

I had felt pretty grown up riding the railroad by myself.

She ran the bathwater for me and added something that made more bubbles than I had ever seen. The water made my skin feel sort of oily soft and smelled like flowers.

After a long soak, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed across the hall from the bathroom to where my aunt was sitting on Cynthia’s bed waiting for me.

“Did you bring pajamas? I always forget pajamas. I suppose you could find something to wear in one of Cynthia’s drawers. Well, I’ll leave you to get ready for bed, Honey. It’s already ten, so don’t dawdle. If you want to leave a light on, that’s okay.”

She left the room after kissing me gently on the cheek. She showed no signs of coming back.

Mom still tucked me in sometimes, if Dad worked late at the bank. However, I could go to sleep without a goodnight kiss, if I had to.

I hadn’t brought any pajamas, as I hardly used them in the summer. I crawled into bed, but Aunt Rosella’s words about “finding something to wear in one of Cynthia’s drawers” buzzed around in my head. Had she really meant it?

Aunt Rosella’s lack of rules always puzzled me. She seemingly wanted me to feel free to be whoever my heart said I should be. That could be very dangerous because my heart went a little crazy at times -- like right now.

Before I could talk some sense into myself, I leaped out from under the covers and padded across the room toward “those” drawers. I had left on a small lamp, so when I pulled open the first drawer the rainbow of soft colors almost blinded me.

I carefully ran my hands through the shirts in her drawer. I closed my eyes and tried to remember Cynthia in anything but a dress. Although she almost always wore them, she also did wear skirts -- but never pants or even shorts.

I silently opened her closet door and saw at least twenty-five garments hanging next to each other beckoning me toward a forbidden thought.

“I am taking Cynthia’s place,” I whispered to myself. “Mom said that - just before I left home.”

I closed the door to the closet knowing that every dress and skirt in there appeared to be just my size . . . and more trouble than I could possibly handle.

“I can’t,” I said and willed myself back into bed. For the longest time, I stared at the ceiling and thought about baseball. That’s what our teacher in boys’ catechism class said we should do when we had impure thoughts -- think about baseball until they went away. But . . . would I ever have another chance?

Probably not!

I bounced out of bed again and then opened another drawer, this one filled with panties and nighties. BINGO! I picked a bright yellow nightie with flowers around the neck and lace on all the openings. I had never seen anything like it other than in the Sear’s catalog; and I never looked at those pages too long, because how would I explain my interest in nighties -- if someone caught me?

Already naked, the decision to put it on was followed in the next instant by my arms shooting straight up and a slice of pure pleasure floating down around my welcoming body. I actually wiggled with delight.

The mirror behind Cynthia’s largest dresser allowed me to stare at the girl I had become. I twirled and twirled, watching with fascination as the bottom of the nightie flew up and away from my ankles. Girls have it so good!

“Rudy, is that you? Are you having trouble sleeping?”

Ughhhh! She’s coming down the hall and I. . ..

With nothing else to do, I jumped into the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. There had been no time to take off the nightgown.

The door opened and the light from the hall spilled in brightening the soft light from Cynthia’s Cinderella’s glass slippers lamp.

“Hi, Aunt Rosella,” I said, trying to sound half-asleep.

She smiled that my-little-angel-you-could-do-nothing-wrong smile.

If she knew what I’m wearing she would hate me forever and would always have a you-can-do-nothing-right look on her face for me.

She smiled again, even brighter. “I thought I heard you walking around. Maybe I shouldn’t have let you drink all that lemonade.” She came over to the bed and sat so that she could stroke my hair. “It’s a pity your mother cut off all those beautiful baby curls. You would be so pretty now.” Her eyes focused on mine.

I tried to smile -- but could see the still-open drawer behind her. If she looks that way she’ll know for sure.

“I’m okay,” I lied. “I was just about asleep.”

‘Are you cold? You’ve got those covers pulled up so tight against you, it’s a wonder you can even breathe.”

I need to keep her attention on me so she doesn’t look around the room. “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

“I thought we’d start with a trip to the beauty parlor. Once we’ve had our hair done and our nails painted, we can go shopping.”

I gasped.

“I’m just kidding,” she laughed. “Your mom made such a big deal about you taking Cynthia’s place here that I’ve been having a little fun thinking about making you my daughter for two weeks.”

I slid my bottom around in the sheets feeling the silkiness of the nightie and imagining right along with her. “What?” I croaked.

“Sure. Why not? You’re exactly the right size to fit into Cynthia’s things and she only took a few dresses with her. You and I could cook and sew and go to the library. Cynthia has a blonde wig that she uses when she and her little friends put on plays. It would look good on you; and no one would ever know.”

I couldn’t tell if she was teasing me because she knew what I was wearing -- or what.

I could just pull the covers down an inch or two to expose the top of my nightie and show her what I think of her idea. It would be so easy.

Her eyes are smiling; they aren’t laughing. She wants me to be her daughter.

I want to be her pretend daughter. No one would ever, ever know.

She reached across me to the bed stand. “The bath salts you used have the same fragrance as this perfume. Give me your wrist.”

I carefully extended my wrist toward her – poking it out just enough to obey without disturbing the covers or showing my nightie.

She dabbed a little perfume on me.

It didn’t smell very much like my bath; and I wrinkled my nose.

“It’s a little strong at first, but in a few minutes you’ll love it.”

She had told me to wear Cynthia’s nightie, gave me a bubble bath, and put perfume on my wrist. Maybe she isn’t kidding about the next two weeks. . . two weeks of absolute happiness. Would my heart be able to take it? “I don’t think I. . ..”

Her smile faded a bit. “I thought. . .. Okay, then let’s explore plan B. Tommy Carson lives next door and he’s just your age. He and I are good buddies. I didn’t tell him you were coming, as I didn’t know if he would be meeting Rudy, or Ruby. He’s a lot of fun and has a big flock of friends. They play ball in the empty lot across the street and down a block. I bought you a ball, bat, and glove -- if that’s what you want to do.”

She kissed me on the forehead. “Ruby, I know you’re in there. If you want to come out for two weeks, now’s your chance. If you want to find out what life is like as a girl, let me know. If not, I’ll call Tommy first thing in the morning and get you two guys together.”

My perfume already smells as sweet as what Ellen wore to school last year on Valentine’s Day.

My aunt's fingers touched mine and for a moment the only thing in the world I wanted to do was hug her.

All I had to do was sit up and become Ruby for two whole weeks. The dresses and skirts I had studied minutes before called to me. Years of waiting for a miracle could be coming to an end.

But, I can’t.

“What kind of glove did you get me? I play first base and will need a mitt.”

The disappointment on her face was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

But I can’t. I just can’t.

***

St. Thomas’ School for Boys had etched its motto Is there any doubt? on the front gate.

Dad said that people who graduated from STSB have a leg up on life. Of course, they drowned those who didn’t cut the mustard, rather than allow them to go out into the world and smudge the school’s reputation.

I was beginning to look like prime material for a permanent dunking.

I got into St. Thomas because my dad and his dad and his dad had all graduated from STSB. Taken on its own, my enrollment application would have lasted as long as it took to strike a match.

The school charged each student with finding a field of endeavor in which he could excel, for the glory of the school. I had failed at football, wrestling, debate, and chess. I had been informed by coaches and teachers that I was: too small, too weak, too wishy-washy, and non-strategic.

My family had a long history of being the best at being the best, and with each visit, my father increased the amount of dismay he allowed himself to show. “Good heavens! Is it time to run a blood test on our milkman?” had been his last parting shot.

In a way, I took perverse pleasure in being such a failure, but my instinctive need to make everyone happy kicked in, and I tried harder than ever.

Just when it appeared I would be placed in a sack with several rocks, I found the stage and its wonderful footlights. Something clicked between drama and me.

They said I had the talent of a natural-born thespian, but I knew I had years of practice at acting.

It hasn’t been easy convincing everyone I’m a boy, when in fact I’m dead certain I’m 100% female.

Mr. Foothall graded all of our performances on a tough set of criteria. Over the last five plays, I had scored high and been named Actor-of-the-Play twice.

“I’ve been told by the prefect that I’m on probation.” Mr. Foothall easily qualified as the most popular teacher in school. He had been called on the carpet for failing to produce a play that had scored high in the state competition. “The good news is -- I have a plan.”

The eighteen members of the drama club cheered in response to his enthusiastic announcement. We had the best parties: pre-practice parties, mid-practice parties, post-production parties, and we-should’ve-won-something parties.

Mr. Foothall’s had a profound genius for planning and carrying out parties. If a statewide competition for making the most fun out of nothing had been held, we would have been prohibitive favorites.

“We’ve tried everything,” he said, “except for what I came up with last summer.” Mr. Foothall didn’t need to teach. His family’s wealth exceeded that of most of the bluebloods he taught. He spent his summers at international vacation spots, living the good life. “I was quaffing an amusing Bel Air Red from Bordeaux when it hit me. . .Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare,” Tom said, “is dullsville.” Tom’s brother lived in the Village and Tom had a unique way of talking that we could hardly understand. One of the teachers called it “constant angst.”

We all nodded. Angst or not, Tom was right about Shakespeare’s plays not having a chance at winning.

“Not just Shakespeare,” Mr. Foothall said, “but Shakespeare interpreted through current language and fads. Everyone will be dressed in modern clothing and speak exactly like they would -- were Romeo and Juliet alive and enrolled at STSB.”

“Juliet wouldn’t get in,” I pointed out.

“That’s the thing,” Mr. Football said, uncharacteristically motivated. “Our actors will all be male, just like the actors were in Shakespeare’s times.”

One of those teachers that actually looked for class input before he reached a decision, Mr. Foothill led us in a democratic discussion, and then we all concluded his idea might pique the interest of the state judges.

We had seen enough of the state competition to know that style won out over substance.

“Who’s going to be Juliet?” Winston asked. Winston had quit the football team, after he ripped up his knee. He was about as big around as a Studebaker.

For the last few minutes, I had been wondering who would get to play Juliet. I wanted it so bad my fingers hurt from tingling. Whoever played her would be expected to wear girls’ clothing — for the good of the school.

But — what if I did it and came across as too realistic?

The jocks would make life miserable for anyone suspected of being one of those homos. Certainly, a boy who looked comfortable in a dress would come under closer scrutiny. I had no sexual interest in any of the boys, but I did wish I had been born a girl. I was convinced I had been, in a way I couldn’t figure out.

“Well, boys,” Mr. Foothall said, “here’s how I’ve got it figured. I’ve gone through the top five roles and ranked them in order of how much acting skill it would take to play them. I’ve eliminated any boy for a female’s role who weighs over one hundred and fifty pounds. That leaves twelve boys eligible. I’ve taken the average scores for each of those boys from past plays and put them in order -- one through twelve. The bottom seven will go into a hat to pick the for roles with fewer lines.”

“So, will one of the best actors play Juliet?” Winston asked. Winston looked very uncomfortable for someone who didn’t have to run the risk of playing a girl. He probably felt sympathy for whoever did. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Foothall. Do you mean to say whoever plays a female role in the play will have to go on stage in a dress?”

Mr. Foothall looked embarrassed by what he had to say. “When the prefect had me in for our little chat, he told me the drama club had to pull out all the stops. I told him what I had in mind and he suggested that all the players having female roles adopt female clothing and make-up from now until the final curtain. . .as much as needed.”

“What does that mean?” Tom asked.

“Those with minor female roles, like Lady Capulet, will need occasional practice in full female attire, but our Juliet will have to be perfect. She’ll work extensively to become at ease as a female.”

“That person will be in a dress every practice?” I croaked.

Everyone laughed nervously.

“No,” Mr. Foothall replied. “That actor will have to live as girl fulltime -- in class, during free-time, and in bed -- twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week, even during chapel.”

A lark singing outside provided the only sound. As a fifth-year, this would be my last chance to excel. Next year, I would be in college at one of the Ivy League schools, more than likely Yale, where I would become a member of Skull and Bones like my dad. I wanted the part of Juliet and I knew I could be great.

Mr. Foothall looked eager to move forward. “The top five boys are: Willy, Rudy, Marvin, Vincent, and Tom. One of you five will be Juliet.”

The seven not mentioned looked somewhat relieved, even though they realized they could be the nurse, Lady Montague, Lady Capulet, or one of the other female roles. We “chosen five” groaned -- as required by male etiquette.

Vincent’s face went beet red. “Where would we get the clothes?”

“I’ve taken care of that,” Mr. Foothall said. “I’ve hired a consultant. She’s worked with Miss America contestants and is an expert in the essence of femininity. She will help whoever is our Juliet dress, walk, and talk properly like a girl, and will work with him on his make-up for the entire six weeks leading up to the state competition. She claims that within two weeks whoever is playing Juliet will look exactly like a Bobby Soxer.”

“A Bobby Soxer?” I asked. They wore poodle skirts, rolled down their socks, and swooned. With every word, he made me more eager.

“Uh-huh. That’s how I’ve written the play, with Romeo just like Frankie Sinatra.”

Winston spit into a wastebasket. “I can’t stand guys who sing and dance like him. They’re not right.”

Winston would be one of the first to beat me up if I happened to get picked -- but I can’t pass it up.

Can I?

Mr. Foothall looked at his notes. “Before I assign roles I want to allow anyone who really wants to take on the challenge of playing Juliet to come forward. Any of you five can do it. You all have the ability. If you don’t mind doing it — it will be that much easier for you to. . . adapt.”

Everyone laughed, reminding me how risky “adapting” would be.

The five of us stared at each other. I only had to raise my hand to live six weeks of my dream life.

I can’t.

If he picked me I would raise a fuss, but would quickly relent.

Raise your hand you fool.

As hard as I tried . . . I froze.

“Doesn’t anyone want the part?” he asked, again. “What about you Rudy, You’ve got the smallest build.”

For years, I had looked to excel for Dad and now I could do it.

But Dad would hate seeing his son as Juliet.

There would be precious little glory in having a beauty queen son, and none he could brag about to his buddies down at the club.

All I needed to do was nod my head or mumble “yes.”

That can’t be that hard. Do it!

I shook my head.

“Okay then,” Mr. Foothall went on, “let’s match up the roles. The student with the best average scores for the last five plays is Rudy.”

I tried my best to look put upon, as all the guys offered their condolences. It’s actually going to happen; I’ll be a girl for six weeks. Just so long as the school keeps the jocks in check – I’ll be safe.

“You’re going to look real sweet,” Winston sneered.

I hope so.

“Wait a second,” Mr. Foothall said. “Rudy isn’t playing Juliet. He’s playing Romeo. Romeo is the more demanding role, and he’s our best actor.”

***

“I am so-o-o sorry, Mr. Prescott.”

Lisa stood before me with my Turkish, terry-cloth bathrobe extended before her. The laundry department had obviously washed it with something red and had turned what had been brilliant white to an ice pink.

Mrs. Whilts next door had her TV on, watching Ellen DeGeneres talk to her audience about something fun but relevant. Ellen had been doing her show for three years and still had interesting things to say.

“You had nothing to do with their carelessness, Lisa,” I said. I extended my arms, and then she slipped it on over my pajamas.

Her badge reminded me that her name was Lisa Congers, a volunteer. I never called her Miss Congers and wished she would simply call me “Rudy.”

We both looked at me in the full-length mirror on the back of my suite’s door.

“It’s actually a very pretty color,” she said. “Too bad you don’t have a daughter to give it to.”

Lisa had been spending time with me every Thursday afternoon for almost a year. I had checked into the assisted living center nearly two years ago, after the third time I’d forgotten to turn off a flame under a cooking pot and it had resulted in a near fire.

I had never married and made my work my life. I had no family and retired far away from where I had lived, so as not to become a burden on my friends.

We continued to look in the mirror together at me, in the. . .lovely robe.

Lisa is right about it being pretty.

My hand went to my hair, which I had taken to wearing longer. I fluffed it a bit. For the last twelve to fifteen years, my body had become increasingly feminine, as my testosterone levels dropped. My doctor had once said my memory problems might be attributable to reduced testosterone.

Lisa straightened the collar on my robe. She was alone in the world, just like me. Her marriage had failed when her husband of five years became enthralled with cocaine. Her parents had left her well off -- like mine had. A thirty-year-old woman like her would be a great catch for some young man, but she just wasn’t quite ready to try again.

“Your hair is nice and curly today, Mr. Prescott.”

“Call me ‘Rudy,’ please.”

“Oh my,” she said with a start.

“What? Don’t be upset. I’m not. I can always get a new robe.” Lisa had become important to me. She played gin rummy with me or found movies on cable for the two of us to watch together. Her concern for me made me care about things, resulting in a marked improvement in my memory.

“No, I’m sure Twelve Oaks will buy you a replacement — Rudy.”

She had such a hard time saying my first name. It was obvious she thought it disrespectful to address a person more than twice her age by his first name.

She bit her lip, and then continued. “No . . . it’s because when I looked at you just then fixing your hair, you. . .ah. . .looked just like my mother.”

I gasped.

She turned away leaving me to worry about allowing too much of my real character to show. When Lisa turned back toward me she had to brush a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry. I miss my mother so; and you have so many of her nice qualities.”

Lisa had spoken to me a few times about her mother, who had died shortly after Lisa’s divorce had become final. Her mother and she had lived together in their family home. Like me, Lisa had no other living family.

“I consider it a great compliment that I remind you of your mother,” I said. A small tear trickled down my cheek. After retiring from the bank, I had become rather sentimental. Lisa and I would sometimes fill my small wastepaper basket with tissues, as we watched a teary movie.

“Really, Mr. Prescott,” she started. “You’re a great deal like her.”

“Call me Rudy, please,” I chided her and reached to squeeze her hand gently.

“Rudy, with your hair styled a little and maybe a small amount of make-up you would be my mother’s identical twin.” She opened her locket and showed me a picture of a pleasant-looking woman, who I would describe as fairly attractive. “I feel foolish telling a man he looks like my mother, but you do, you absolutely do.” Her eyes closed and her hands covered her mouth.

I can’t allow her to be so distressed. “Lisa, I have a secret I’ve never shared with anyone. It might explain what you’re seeing in me.”

I told her about my mother giving me a doll, and how my father had reacted . . . and how I had hidden my feelings from them after that. I shared the story of gawking at my cousin’s party dress, my aunt’s offer to me to try it on, and my refusal.

Lisa’s eyes opened and she quit crying. She nodded again and again, urging me to tell her more.

The story came out about how my cousin and I had traded places and how I had opted to play baseball for the entire vacation rather than wear dresses and be the girl I knew I was.

She squeezed my hands and made supportive sounds.

My voice cracked repeatedly when I went over my disappointment at being picked to play Romeo and the awful six weeks that followed when Marvin wore all the clothes and make-up I could have worn. He got to move and act the way I normally would’ve if I hadn’t been so very careful to act like a boy. And – he actually ended up a school hero, when the play won a state award.

Lisa stayed with me beyond her usual time, and then made arrangements to take me out for dinner, so we could continue to talk.

I spoke from the depths of my heart, masking nothing.

She smiled as I told her about what I had done after graduating from Yale, when I talked Dad into allowing me to take six months off before joining his bank as a junior executive. I had planned to spend a relaxing three weeks with my girlfriend in Boston. She lived in one of those row house things. As fate would have it, someone stole my luggage from the rack on the train when I visited the club car on the way to Beantown.

My girlfriend had an immediate remedy. She wanted me to try something completely different. A story in Look about Christine Jorgensen had gotten her all excited. She wanted me to pretend to be her girlfriend for the entire three weeks. She was just a little bit bigger than me and owned three or four wigs.

Her excitement about doing it set aside most of my worries, but my male pride finally won out and I refused.

I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like that was the beginning of the end of that relationship. I never found the time, or the right person, for another affair.

And then the story about the charity beauty contests poured out of me.

Every year the major banks in our area had their female employees dress a male junior executive in an evening gown for a gala event. The people who attended the charity ball voted with dollars for the “most beautiful” man.

It happened four times while I was a junior executive, and each time I refused to be the one having all that fun. I couldn’t allow my father to see me in a dress. Fear that he would see the happiness in my eyes and know immediately that I really had wanted that Raggedy Ann doll -- froze me.

“We’re a strange two,” Lisa said. “I’ve been looking for something to repair the huge hole in my heart that my mother’s death left. You’ve been running away from your bliss for your entire life. For a year now we’ve known each other and we’ve wasted all that time by not being open.”

“Wasted? What do you mean?” I sighed. “I couldn’t possibly replace your mother. I’m sorry Lisa -- but that would be impossible.”

She smiled knowingly. “I know no one could replace her -- but you could live with me; and it would be wonderful to have your companionship. We could do things together in the real world, outside Twelve Oaks.”

“My memory. . ..”

“Your memory is just fine. I’ll do all the cooking.”

We laughed, until I suddenly realized what she wanted.

“Do you mean you want me to dress . . . ?”

“I never threw out my mother’s things. She and you are almost identical in size. With a little tailoring, her things would be perfect on you.”

The dress her mother wore in the locket picture looked exquisite.

“I can’t possibly. . .. It wouldn’t be right.”

She reached for my hand and pressed it ever so lightly. “There, there, Ms. Prescott. You’ve told me all your secrets, and I think you will be a wonderful second mother.”

“Call me ‘Ruby,’ please.”

And, every minute for the last fifteen years she has.

The End

---

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

What would you do for your career? What would you do for your best friend?

Andrea Leonard believes that television is where great actors go to die. A star of stage and screen, she fervently objects when her agent wants her to take the lead role in a television series.

Don Champp's life is in neutral. He isn't sure what he wants to do with his future, or what he wants to be... or who. When an agent tells him they have the perfect role for him, he takes the card and tries out for the part without any expectation of it turning into something more.

Both Andrea and Don's attitudes change when they start working on the show. The scripts work. The chemistry works. They have something special, and they know it.

When the sponsor contacts the studio and wants to make a change, everyone is nervous.

Is Don brave enough to wear skirts instead of pants if it means a successful career on screen? Or, perhaps, even more?

A response to a writers’ challenge -- "A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day."

Another Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
By Angela Rasch

Laurel was away for the week at her mother’s.

I found myself on a lazy Friday afternoon looking forward to a weekend to myself, a rarity in the two years we had been married.

Laurel didn’t leave me alone too often.

I would finally have time to put my feet up and relax. I decided to look for a novel I’d been too busy to buy and started my search in a small, used bookstore two suburbs away from where we lived. Thirty minutes later, I was happily armed with a recycled grocery bag containing my book, which I had bought for 70% below the cover price.

A sign in a storefront window, of that same small strip mall, caught my eye.

The idea of a manicure appealed to that part of me that had been locked away deep inside -- years ago -- where no one ever went.

Men get manicures! And it’s 50% off. I thought, trying to find the courage to go into Carla’s Nail Shop.

As if by magic, its door flew open in my face and a beaming soccer mom exited. Her scornful grin carried the warning my brain had been trying to get through to me.

What the hell are you doing entering a nail shop?

Before I could properly react, an erotic, unmistakably feminine scent hit me in the face and snared me -- as my feet moved involuntarily forward.

“Can I help you?” A soothing voice came at me from one of the kindest faces I’d ever seen. She seemed to be about fifteen years older than me -- not motherly, but maybe a favorite younger aunt or older sister. “Is there something I can do for you?”

I glanced around the small shop and quickly determined that we were alone -- together. “Do you do. . .. Can men have their nails done here?”

She smiled -- after taking a long moment to apparently appraise me. “I have several clients like you. Are you interested in a manicure or a pedicure?”

Pedicure? I hadn’t really considered. “A manicure. I saw your sign. I’ve never been in here before, so I qualify for the discount — don’t I?”

Her smile faded. “I’m not sure you want. . ..”

There’s nothing I hate worse than when a store runs a bait and switch. It appeared I had been lured into her shop by the promise of a 50% reduction, only to discover that she was going to try to sell me something else.

“Look. . .I want the manicure offered on your sign -- the one for 50% off. Okay?”

Her smile came back -- and her face softened. “Absolutely,” she said. “The customer is always right.”

She led me to a chair facing a workbench where she could sit across from me and directed me to sit. “It’s fifteen minutes to closing. You’re the last customer I’ll be taking today. So, why don’t I arrange things a bit more privately?”

I grinned at her and readily agreed to follow her lead. I guess my nervousness shows. I’m not really all that confident about having a manicure. But if I don’t like it -- I’ll just change the oil in my car tomorrow and then my nails will be chipped and accented by black sludge.

She walked to the window and closed a curtain that ran the length of the storefront, including the door, which she locked.

“Men are some of my best customers,” she said warmly. “Without my special customers, I wouldn’t be profitable.”

I don’t know about being “special.” I’m a pretty ordinary guy. Maybe she expects a big tip. Fifteen percent is my limit!

She sat in her chair and studied my hands for a minute. “Not too big and nicely shaped. You could be quite exquisite.”

Exquisite? I peered into a face that hinted of the Far East and wondered if English was her second language.

“Let’s start by making sure I don’t ruin your outfit,” she said. “Go into the dressing room and take off all of your clothes. That way we won’t have any accidents. Slip into the gown hanging, on the back, of the door.”

Gown? I rose and walked timidly toward the door she had indicated.

She busied herself pouring liquid, into a bowl. “Hurry,” she said, impatiently. “I’d like to finish before six and these things take some time.”

The “dressing room” was barely a closet -- with a bench and several hooks on the wall. I stripped quickly and found what seemed to be a smock, not unlike something they would make you wear at a doctor’s office. Except this one was pink.

“Just put it on and I’ll help you with the strings,” she called from the other side of the door. “Be sure to take off everything, including your shoes, socks, and underwear. I don’t want to have to pay for anything that gets spotted by my solvents.”

Dressed only in the smock, which came to mid-calf and felt much softer than anything I’d ever worn at my doctor’s, I swung open the door, while holding things together, in back, for dear life.

“Men!” She giggled. “Little girls learn how to tie things behind their backs at the age of five.” She turned me around and tied what felt like large bows in the three sets of strings on the smock. “It looks lovely on you,” she sighed as she fluffed my hair. “You have such curly locks.”

I blushed and shook my head. Despite not wanting it to -- it felt good hearing her compliments. Lovely? How long has she been speaking English?

“I assume you want the complete special?”

I stared at her blankly.

“The French manicure is usually $20,” she explained. “Included in my special is a pedicure, so the combination is half price.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I want a pedicure.”

“Then you won’t be buying my special and the price for your manicure will be $20.” Her face became cold, once again.

Not one to be fooled by a slick salesperson I decided to put my foot down — figuratively. “I’ll have the special.”

Her grin reappeared. She directed me to take off my wedding band and then placed my fingertips in a solution.

“What’s her name?” She asked.

“Her?” Who’s she talking about?

She pointed toward the circle of white where my ring had been, on my otherwise tanned hand.

Laurel! My stomach lurched. “Can I trust you?” I gasped. “If I let you manicure my nails -- can I be sure I can remove every trace, as soon as I want?”

“Of course,” She laughed. “Your wife must be a real horror-show.”

“Oh no. Laurel is great. I mean, she has a temper. But only when it’s warranted. Sometimes, I’m not as good a husband as she deserves. She isn’t shy about helping me get better. But we love each other -- and that’s what counts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really.”

“How long have you known that you should have been born a woman?”

I jumped out of my seat -- nearly knocking over the tray of bottles, cotton balls, and liquid she had assembled. “What?”

“You don’t have to put on an act,” she said quietly, looking up at me. “For goodness sakes. I have a very good friend who is a sweetie -- like you. Just about everything about you screams ‘woman.’ And now, you’ve taken a big risk by coming in here and having your nails done when you know your wife will hate it. But you just can’t stand not being able to be feminine — can you?”

Tears formed in my eyes -- as my life flashed before me. Memories of a childhood filled with pain. Wishes. Denials. Fights. Taunts. Warnings. Sobs. Derisive laughs directed my way. Infinite care had been taken to lock away my dreams and my natural tendencies.

“Are there really things about me that scream ‘woman?’” I asked shyly, struggling to regain my self-control.

She bit her lip and nodded. “This is your first manicure, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you don’t know a French manicure from a Swiss Alp, do you?”

“No.” I hung my head.

“Oh, Honey,” she gushed. “Now, you sit down. I probably know more about you than you do.”

I sat, not knowing what to say.

She reached for my hands across the small table and put my fingertips back in a bowl. “Do you have a name?”

“Roger.”

“Well, Roger. I didn’t mean your boy name. I mean the name you really would love to have. . .if you hadn’t been born in the wrong body.”

I closed my eyes. It’s possible she does know quite a bit about me. I love Nancy Drew books and had dreamed about being her — until I found out that certain people used the name Nancy to make fun of people. . .like me.

“Nancy,” I whispered and then cringed.

“Nancy is a lovely name. I have a cousin whose name is Nancy. She and I are BFFs.”

She chattered as she worked on my hands.

I had morphed into her BFF Nancy, a young woman having her nails done, like she did every other week, at her BFF Carla’s nail salon.

“You’ll love how your hands will look. . .just for a few hours. I’ll change them back, later tonight. Nobody will know the difference. Won’t that be fun?”

My body shuddered with pleasure, while thinking how nice it would be to look down at my hands — a woman’s hands, for an entire night.

“Tell me more about Laurel?” She asked as she filed my nails and prepared them for whatever she was going to do.

“She’s beautiful,” I gushed. “She’s my only friend,” I admitted.

Carla nodded knowingly and urged me to go on.

“I have a nice family, but a family must know its place — and Laurel and I have pretty much cut off most of my ties, with Mom and Dad and my brother.”

“That sounds about right,” she said -- but didn’t explain herself. “What’s your job like? Do you like it?”

I blushed. “I have to be pretty flexible in my work, to accommodate Laurel’s career. She’s much more successful than I am.” I grinned. “I only work to make money, so I can give Laurel the things she deserves. She’s so hard to impress.”

“Doesn’t she appreciate you?”

“Of course, she appreciates me!” I had blurted that out -- much louder than what I should have. “You’re getting the wrong idea. Laurel’s my all-time defender. She looks out for me, making sure I’m doing the right things.”

Carla made a clucking noise with her tongue. “I’m thinking ‘Cutie Pink,’” she said with some certainty. “With your dark skin and hazel eyes, it’s the perfect thing for a girls’ night out -- or a hot date.”

I think a clear polish would be safer. I shook my head. “I’m not going out and my wife is out of town. So, I won’t be going on any hot date.”

“You’re not married,” she scolded me. “Nancy, you really have to lighten up and go with the flow.”

I smiled -- as I remembered the rules of the game we were playing. What will it hurt? No one will ever know. “Cutie Pink’ sounds divine,” I vamped -- raising my voice a half octave.

She smiled knowingly and went back to her trade. “I’ll give you medium extensions. They’ll feel like eagle’s talons for a while, but they’re really fun. . .and sexy.”

I bit my lip slightly and gave in to the ultra-feminine rush that had been pent-up in my body, for years. “You can’t know what. . ..”

“Shhh, Nancy,” she cautioned. “Isn’t Jamie Dornan enough to put you over the edge, or what?”

I closed my eyes. She’s asking me if fantasizing about Jamie Dorman is enough to get me off when I’m. . .. “Ryan Gosling,” I whispered suddenly, without really thinking and surprising myself, with how deeply I felt about him.

“Oh. . .. I know what you mean. He’s heavenly.” She had taken my enthusiasm and pumped it up to a much higher level.

We chirped about all the Ryan Gosling movies we had seen and all the scenes I hadn’t realized, until just then, that had meant so much to me.

Before I knew it my now lengthened fingernails had been covered with layers of Cutie Pink.

“Your toenails have a little discoloring,” she said as she examined them. “It’s probably nothing. But if you would allow me to take a small blood sample, I’ll send it in, to a friend’s lab. She’ll let me know for sure, if there’s anything to worry about. There’s no extra charge.”

“Could it be serious?” I questioned. “I’m not wild about needles and. . ..”

“Fungal disorder isn’t anything to sneeze at. Here, give me your arm.” She wiped the crease in my arm, with alcohol, on a cotton ball. “A little poke,” she said, as she pushed a hypodermic needle in and withdrew a vial full of blood.

“Hold this.” She had me push down on a cotton ball, over the spot she had punctured and then taped the ball in place, with a Band-Aid. “Nothing to it -- you big baby.”

Laurel calls me a baby when. . . . Laurel? I have cute little pink feminine flashes peeking out from the ends of the arms that extend from a smock that now looks much more acceptable -- on me.

I frowned. “Are you sure this polish isn’t permanent?”

“Silly! They don’t even make permanent nail polish. Now give me your feet, before you chicken out and miss all the fun.” She grabbed my foot and went to work. In minutes, she had me looking quite girlish on that end as well.

If Laurel could see me now. Laurel!

“Nancy, why don’t you enjoy your polish overnight? You can come in tomorrow and I’ll change you then.”

A few hours as Nancy would be nice. “How would I get home? I can put on my shoes and socks. . ..”

“Don’t you dare cover up your beautiful toes,” Carla admonished. “You just need a little help and some Carla magic and you’ll be fine.”

I stared at her, as stupidly as I had earlier in the evening.

“Can you spend a few hundred dollars?” She asked, with the tone of a co-conspirator. “I’ll make sure you have a night you won’t ever forget. One night as the Nancy you’ve always wanted to be,” she tempted.

I have a few dollars squirreled away that Laurel doesn’t know about. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you trust me?” She asked.

So far, everything’s been okay. She does seem like my friend. “Yes, I think so. But Laurel. . ..”

“Omigosh, Nancy. If you’re going to have any fun at all tonight, you have to quit talking about your imaginary friend. Tell you what -- our hands are about the same size.”

I looked at hers. She’s right.

Carla opened a drawer and pulled out a pearl and cubic zirconium flower ring. It featured a beautiful setting and slid easily onto my finger.

“When you start to think of you-know-who -- I want you to rub this ring. The magic of our friendship will help you to stay in the moment and concentrate on the task at hand, which is to think only about yourself, for an evening.”

Laurel wouldn’t approve. I rubbed the ring and thought of how nice my hand looked wearing such a pretty piece of jewelry.

She touched my arm. “Wouldn’t you like to see what you would look like as a woman. . .just this once?”

“I’m not sure I. . .,” I rubbed my new ring.

“Look. . .. I’m not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. A friend of mine owns a transformation service. She turns men into women for a living. She and I have plans to go to a movie tonight, so I know she’s free. I’ll tell you what. I’ll call her and ask her to give you a special price. It’s only a short distance from here.”

“I really shouldn’t. . ..” But, it sounds so intriguing. “Can I trust her?”

“Trust Maggie?” she giggled. “Maggie’s about the most trustworthy person I know. She wouldn’t harm a flea. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve referred dozens of my special customers to Maggie. I’ve never once had a complaint.”

I vigorously rubbed my ring.

“Here, Nancy. You put on these flip-flops of mine and cover your smock with this light coat. We’ll go in my car.”

Her cranberry, double-breasted trenchcoat fell to my ankles. No one can possibly see my smock under this. And — I do like the color, although it clashes a bit with my nails.

Three hours later, I walked out of Maggie’s place a new woman.

I had thrown three hundred dollars and caution to the wind. It was definitely worth it! My new dress alone must have cost plenty. It was a black little thing that Carla called a cocktail dress. I called it “barely able to keep me modest.”

But it felt and looked simply amazing.

Maggie had worked from my skin out -- even deeper, as she had been brainwashing me into thinking I had been born a girl, from the moment I walked in her front door. She started by removing all the hair from my body.

At first, I balked a bit, but the two of them convinced me I could tell anyone who cared that I had done it to be faster riding my bike. I had rubbed my ring a lot digesting that one.

They curled and fooled with my hair, after they used something on it to make it platinum blonde. Carla had shown me the dye she would use later to return it, to my normal color.

Then they glued prosthetic breasts on my chest and dressed me in undergarments that had strategic padding, to give me a figure. I was pulled in and pushed out, in just the right places.

They used a basket full of cosmetics to make my face look believable, with my new dress.

“Pierced ears are a must,” Carla insisted.

“That’s just too permanent.” No amount of ring rubbing will change that fact.

“Not at all,” she said with her usual patience. “After you see how good you look in dangly earrings -- you can simply take them out, use a little foundation on your ears to cover the holes, for a few days -- and they’ll grow shut. Nothing could be more natural.”

I relented, feeling a little foolish for having been so naíve and frightened.

When they finally allowed me to see myself in the mirror, I couldn’t believe how wonderful I looked.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. I didn’t know what to add that would fully express how much their efforts meant to me. They had spent hours on me and couldn’t possibly be making any money, from their co-venture. They had even loaned me their own jewelry, for the night, to add authenticity, to my look.

I would have to return it in the morning when Carla changed me back. “You two are just wonderful. If there is ever anything I can do for you, just name it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Maggie said. “The joy in your eyes is thanks enough.” She winked at Carla.

Carla sighed. “You’re simply lovely. I just knew the minute you walked into my shop that you would be perfect, in your natural state.”

I blushed. “Thanks to both of you.” I’ll never do this again, but I’m extremely glad I did it. I stared in the mirror, again -- trying to sear the image I saw into my brain. “My goodness, I’ve used up your Friday night.” I sighed. “I’ll get my things together and go home. You two might be able to salvage something out of your evening.”

Carla laughed. “I wouldn’t think of allowing you to go, without taking you out for a drink.”

“A d-d-drink,” I stammered in horror.

This time it was Maggie who laughed. “Don’t worry. I know of a place where there’s absolutely no chance of you having any sort of a problem. I’ve taken nearly a hundred clients there. Nothing has ever gone wrong.”

“No.” I simply can’t.

“Really, Nancy,” Carla said. “One drink and you will have experienced the whole enchilada. Think of it. You’re pretty good in your heels. Wouldn’t it be fun to hear them clicking as you walk into a bar? Wouldn’t you like to feel the breeze blowing up under your skirt, just once?”

They’re crazy.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” Maggie said. “The bar’s just a few blocks away. We’ll take my car, have one little drink, and be back here in fifteen minutes.”

“What if the police. . .?”

“There’s no law against cross-dressing,” Carla said. “Have I steered you wrong tonight?”

“Well, no. . ..”

Carla bit her lip and appeared to be a little hurt. “I wouldn’t do anything to harm you.”

“Ohhhh — I know that. How far is it to this bar?”

Before I knew it, they had sprayed me with a perfume called Spring Fever.

Carla said it was light, fruity, and floral, to match my personality, which she said reminded her of Margot Robbie or Mila Kunis.

We were sitting at a table, in a bar, with dim lighting.

Carla ordered the house white wine, for all three of us.

As my eyes got used to the lighting, I could see mostly couples with their heads together, in private conversations. A few lucky ones were dancing to soft, romantic music coming through speakers, on the walls.

I’m not the only one in the bar who is cross-dressed.

“Hi, Carla,” he said as he approached our table.

“Joshua!” Carla squealed.

The two of them were obviously friends.

One drink turned into two. Joshua led us through several amusing topics. Under different circumstances, I think he and I could have hit it off as buddies. For some reason, I had to consciously stop myself from rubbing my ring. Another glass of wine seemed to help.

Carla’s cell phone played Hello Young Lovers from The King and I and then her face fell as she listened to a voice, at the other end. “I’ve got to go. My mother’s been taken to an emergency room.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” Maggie offered, sounding equally concerned.

“Let’s go,” Carla said, getting to her feet. “They said she needs me, by her side. She fell and. . ..” She started to cry.

“Go,” Joshua said. “I’ll take care of Nancy.”

“Oh. . ..” Carla wailed. “Nancy, I’ll be at your house tomorrow morning, to help you with your hair and things? I feel terrible, but. . ..”

“No. . .. You go,” I stated flatly. “Don’t worry about a thing. You have my address, on the check, I wrote to you.”

Maggie and Carla hurried out, with Carla looking over her shoulder at me and mouthing, “Tomorrow.”

“I suppose we should go,” I said, even though the waitress arrived just then, with another round of drinks.

“Let’s finish these. Then I’ll take you home,” Joshua offered.

“I can take a cab to my car, which is still at Carla’s,” I suggested.

“I wouldn’t think of it. Neither of us should drive. Carla would kill me, if I didn’t come with you, in your cab -- and see you to your door. Any friend of Carla’s deserves better treatment than a ride home alone.”

Within moments, Joshua and I were talking easily about an art exhibit that had opened recently, which we both had loved. The drinks kept coming. He successfully coaxed me onto the dance floor.

The Nancy in me flourished, in his arms. After he made it clear to me that Carla and he were like brother and sister, I didn’t feel at all uncomfortable when we moved to a booth and his arm encircled me.

His first kiss left me only wanting more. . .and more.

Joshua did go with me, in the cab — a ride I won’t ever forget. He then seamlessly found his way, into my bed, where things proceeded quite naturally. . .several times.

Shortly before sunrise, he turned to me. “I have a confession.”

I ran a finger, over the muscles, on his chest. “Isn’t it me who had the secret, tonight?”

He smiled. “A secret I’m learning to love.”

I melted at the word ‘love” and snuggled in close, under his arm.

He spoke earnestly. “I’m beginning to see where the two of us might not be able to live, without a long future together.”

I smiled deeply and would have purred had I only known how. “I see no problem with that.” There’s no chance of us seeing each other again. But I’ll play the “Nancy” game a while longer.

“We can’t start a life together, without a clean slate,” he said. He spoke slowly -- without too much shame. He explained that I had been set up. Carla had charged him $5,000 to find a “virgin” who had been checked for STDs.

I should have been outraged, but the sex had been marvelous. I clenched my buttocks muscles involuntarily.

He continued. “After you had been in her shop, for only a few minutes, she had identified your true nature and put her plan, in effect. When she called Maggie, to set an appointment for your transformation, Maggie knew she should call me. Our meeting in the bar was anything but coincidental. Carla’s emergency phone call had actually been from someone who worked in a lab. They had processed the blood sample you’d given. She told her it was clean. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve dreamt all my life of finding someone like you. Had I realized I would fall in love I. . ..” Tears ran down his face.

I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t believe the situation I had allowed myself to get into, but . . . I couldn’t believe how truly marvelous I felt.

Of course, a long-term relationship is out of the question. His infatuation is a mind-blowing compliment, but it can’t possibly work between us. We can have a few more hours of fantasy together -- and then it will be over.

I pressed my body into his. “Let’s sleep on it. Things will look different in the morning. We can talk then.”

I woke first and crept from the bed, to my bathroom. A quick shower, shave, and some of Laurel’s cosmetics, in the drawer, created a miraculously pretty vision, in my mirror.

I found a negligee, in the closet, which fit perfectly. Suitably dressed, I went to the kitchen. A little bit longer as Nancy won’t hurt anyone.

Joshua came out fifteen minutes later, obviously hungry. . .for me.

There are people who shouldn’t allow anyone to see them until at least 5:00, in the afternoon. Joshua was one of those who popped out of bed looking stunning — and ready for more action.

We made it as far as the couch, in the living room, before I pushed him to a sitting position and fell to my knees in front of him -- burying my face, in his lap.

In the light of day, without any alcohol, he still tasted and felt wonderful.

I was enjoying a huge mouthful when the front door opened. I heard the sound of high heels on our wood, living room floor.

Oh my! Carla came over earlier than I had expected.

“Roger, I’m home and. . .aaiiiieeEEEEEE!” Laurel’s suitcase fell to the floor.

That was the beginning of a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

This story was first posted in 2009. Given the current political climate, I've made revisions.

Sarah learns to accept what the world demands of her.

Anticipation
By Angela Rasch

“I’m thinking about going to a lecture tonight,” Sarah said. “I heard about it on Channel 5’s morning program.” Her hands moved in a blur chopping vegetables and lettuce with a fury born out of love.

Our marriage is less than two years old, and I’m so addicted to my Sarah that I can’t imagine living a minute of the rest of my life with anyone but her at my side. Yet . . . she could be painfully shy on detail — and I often had to drag things out of her. I assumed that trait had been etched into her psyche as a survival tactic during her younger years when it had been important for her to protect her secrets from the world. “Who, what, where, why, and how?”

“There’s a sociologist speaking at the university.” She stopped and thought a moment. With others, such deliberate action would have driven me insane, but with Sarah, it was her way of saving effort by speaking correctly the first time. “He’s an expert in the field of evolution, sort of a radical who calls on the ideas of George Bernard Shaw, Theodore Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and H.G. Wells.”

“Evolution? Is this a lecture about Darwinism?” I turned on the TV to watch the national news, having lost interest in a topic I had long ago filed under “Nothing New to Consider.”

“No,” she answered, checking on the temperature of the meat she was roasting.

Its succulent aroma awakened a hunger in me that had gone dead after another unsatisfactory cold sandwich from a vending machine at the college. My work as a corporate recruiter often found me on campus where my stomach fought bravely to eat like a teenager.

“The speaker tonight will be discussing pro-active genetics through such things as birth control, prenatal testing, in vitro fertilization, and counseling.”

An alarm went off in my head. “Are you sure you want to attend that lecture? It sounds a lot like eugenics.”

“I don’t think anyone used that word, Jim. Mostly they were talking about creating a much stronger tomorrow through the application of sound selective breeding.” She started the process of mashing boiled potatoes. Since my last physical examination, she had been using Brommel and Brown instead of butter, which was all right with me.

I snapped the remote at the TV and gave her my full attention. “Honey, Chanel 5 is an ultra-conservative news outlet. Selective breeding isn’t a very LGBT-friendly philosophy.”

She bit her lip. Sarah could become teary quite easily, if anyone brought up anything gay-related. “Not everything revolves around me.”

Uh oh. I’ve done it now. It’s only been a week since we we’re told about the problems we could encounter completing an adoption.

“Just once I’d like to have a conversation about something that doesn’t lead back in some way to my past. I didn’t go through all those painful operations to constantly be reminded of my birth defect.” Her eyes glistened — a sign that I’d breached a promise I made many times to avoid certain topics.

“I’m sorry, Honey.” I wanted to take her into my arms and console her, but it was obviously not a moment for physical contact.

“I’m going to go to the lecture,” she said, hammering on the potatoes with a vengeance. “Unlike others, I’m going to keep an open mind. Honestly — it’s being held at the university. They must screen their speakers. Sometimes your small-town background makes you so suspicious of people.”

Sarah had also been raised in a small town...where everyone had known her as Ben, a boy who played football and dated the homecoming queen.

“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted. I turned the TV back on and found a channel with a soccer game. Sarah had no interest in soccer and I had just as little interest in continuing our conversation.

I watched her marvelously feminine motions out of the corner of my eye, while she flowed around the kitchen -- until I could stand it no longer. Without a sound, I moved to her side, shut off the oven, and then swept her into my arms. The bouquet of her Burberry's perfume filled my nostrils with a girly lavender. Her high-pitched giggle enchanted me.

My immediate need was no longer food. It would be hours before we would emerge from our bedroom.

***

Sarah and I were having lunch together at a small downtown restaurant. She looked especially lovely; and I told her so.

“I felt a need to look nice today -- for you.” She sighed.

“Is something bothering you?”

She slid a letter across the table.

I recognized the letterhead as coming from the clinic where she had gone for her SRS. “You haven’t heard from them for years.” I peered into her drawn face. “Is it bad news?”

She shook her head. “I’m not really sure.”

I took the letter from its already opened envelope, and then read it. “Why would the government want your health records?”

“I called and asked Dr. Mark. He said Congress is creating a national database of all known transsexuals.”

I blinked. “Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?”

“That’s what I asked him. According to Dr. Mark, the government is trying to do good things for transsexuals and needs data.”

“Does he believe that?”

She bit her lip. “He wants to believe everything is on the up-and-up. Evidently, the Supreme Court has ruled that people like me have no right to privacy. He said the attorney at the Department of Justice who he’d talked to said transsexuals aren’t protected by federal anti-discrimination laws.”

“What about Schroer vs. Billington?” I stammered, feeling the floor move a bit under me.

A tear trickled down her cheek that she brushed away with a delicate gesture. “According to Dr. Mark, Congress is very unhappy about that case. They think that federal judge was over-aggressive in his decision given its timing — coming right after they banned transgendered from the military.”

“Maybe we’re being alarmists? What are they going to do with the information they got from Dr. Mark’s clinic?” For some reason, I felt personally violated, even though it had been Sarah’s data that had been breached -- and not mine.

“He said I shouldn’t worry. He had talked to the ACLU; and they’re prepared to take instantaneous action if anyone’s rights are threatened.”

I choked on a sip of water. “If? If? What does the ACLU need? They accessed your personal records, for Christ’s sake.”

She held her hands in front of her -- signaling for me to lower my voice. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve told you.”

“But. . .. They had no right. We need to get an attorney and go after them.”

She closed her eyes. A few moments passed before she opened them and found my eyes with hers. “We need to move on with our lives. Things are pretty good. Congressmen are just throwing their weight around because they can. Nothing will come of it.”

She patted my hand and smiled at the waiter, who had arrived with water and menus.

***

“Tony called me into his office today,” Sarah said after I had turned off the light on my bed stand.

Omigod! What now? “Oh?”

“He said he has to take me off the institutional audit team.” Her voice wavered.

She ran one of her big feet against my leg, causing me to involuntarily shudder.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means I won’t be able to work on any of the audits for colleges or universities. That’s about sixty percent of what the firm does.”

“Did he tell you why? Is he promoting you into management?” I was hoping more than asking.

“No. In fact, he said I would have to accept a small cut in pay -- given the circumstances.”

Shit! “We can’t afford a drop in income. I’m going to need a new car and. . ..”

“That’s just great,” she said bitterly, “I’m being treated like a second-class citizen and all you can think about is some big, obnoxious phallic symbol.”

“Whoa. How are you being treated like a second-class citizen?”

She sniffed.

She’s crying.

“Tony said our clients who rely on government grants can’t allow me to do professional work for them or they'll lose their funding.”

“Because you’re trans. . ..”

“Uh-huh,” she wailed. “I thought about quitting, but with the economy the way it is, any job is better than none.”

“That’s right. You can’t quit. As much as I would like to go in there with you and punch your boss right in the mouth, we’d better keep our wits about us. What about Oscar Wilde High School?” Our community had created a new high school for all the transsexuals — so they won’t be bothered by the other students.

“I think I can hold onto that account. Their funding isn’t from Washington, as far as I know. Maybe I can create a niche.”

I turned away from her and pulled the covers tight around me, lost in anguished thought about how to put our budget back in the black.

***

“Did you hear about the trouble down at the county library this morning?” Sarah had just returned from paying the pizza delivery man.

“I was listening to the news on the way home from work.” The radio is about the only reliable part of my car! “They said they had to destroy some of their books.”

“They said they were subversive, but when I looked up the list of destroyed books they were all by writers I admire: Jan Morris, Imogene Binnie, Meredith Russo, Jennifer Boylan. . ..”

I shook my head. “Who are. . .?”

“All transwomen,” she answered, apparently unwilling to hide her exasperation.

“It’s just a cyclical thing,” I said, eager to soothe her. “One-minute things are ultra-conservative; and before you know it the pendulums will swing to the far left.”

“Bullshit. . ..”

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” I observed, and then ducked, after a plastic water glass sailed by my ear. “Maybe you should do what I’ve done. Quit watching the news . . . it’s nothing but propaganda anyhow.”

***

We pulled into the parking lot at Nan’s pet store -- only to find the shop had closed. A letter had been taped to the inside of the glass door.

To our wonderful customers:
The impact of the boycott against transgender business-owners has claimed another casualty. In the last thirty-two years we have happily served the little friends in our community as best as we could. We’re sorry and will miss our four-pawed clients.
Thank you for your many years of business.
Beth and Teri

“Has life always been like this?” She asked. “Am I just more aware of how unfair things can be because it involves transpeople?”

I hunched my shoulders. Life with her is complicated. “Someone should do something about it.”

“What?” She asked. "It really doesn’t seem possible to resist the way things are going.”

***

It had been rumored for quite some time in the gay community, but we never thought a bipartisan coalition could be forged that would support the legislation.

Sarah and I would not be allowed to vote anymore because we're cohabiting in a relationship that is not a legally valid and binding marriage. The vote in our statehouse had been close.

“It’s been years since there’s been anyone running for office I was excited about backing,” Sarah said. Her voice sounded husky. Lately, she didn’t make the necessary effort to try to sound like a woman. “But don’t you think it’s a little overkill for Homeland Security to come to our house and confiscate our American flags.”

“We can still fly our Rainbow flag,” I said, trying to be ironic. “Our right to fly it is protected by the State.”

“Don’t you mean ‘demanded by the state.’ We face a fine and up to a one-year sentence in prison, if we don’t fly ‘our’ flag.”

“Someone needs to test that law in court.”

“We have to respect the law,” she said tearfully. “I’ve always been law-abiding and I’m not going to change.”

“Transpeople have no political clout,” I stated flatly.

“Our trans leadership has sold us out. They allowed transsexuals to be divided. The last government orders listed twenty-four legal subsets of transsexuals. The government has been quite remarkable at setting us against one another, by discriminatory laws and punishments for the various subsets.”

“Other than the anti-trans policies, I approve of most of what our government is doing. We need to exercise patience and have faith that logic and reason will ultimately win the day.”

She nodded. “Besides, if I break the law, they will punish you and my parents.

***

“Did you hear what the Prime Minister of Canada said yesterday?”

Sarah and I had been talking about the possibility of moving to Canada. I looked up from my newspaper and noticed how hairy her upper lip looked in the evening sun. “Why should I care?”

“Why should you care?’ She snorted. “He was addressing an international committee on human rights regarding the immigration of transpeople.”

“Oh!” Does she ever think about anything else?

“He said, ‘Since we have no trans problem, we are not desirous of importing one.’”

I shook my head with all the sympathy I could muster.

She laughed wryly. “I miss our house.”

And, whose fault is it we lost our home, unemployed one? “It’s simpler living in an apartment.”

“Our wonderful president had things to say as well.” She took the paper from me and folded it to page eight. “He said, ‘I can only hope and expect that the rest of the world, which has such deep sympathy for these criminals, will at least be generous enough to convert their sympathy into practical aid. We, on our part, are ready to give each and every one of our transpeople a first-class ticket to the country of their choice.’”

We had talked about the rumors of a relocation program. New Zealand seemed feasible. “Maybe you should apply for a ticket,” I half-heartedly suggested.

“You ass!” She stomped from the room.

There will be no sex in our apartment for another evening. Nothing new there. It’s been months since she’s appealed to me; and she’s made no advances.

***

I stared at the one picture I had left of Sarah, and then pulled it out of its frame. Its edges curled as it burned in the sink. The government had tried everything to restore her mental health before coming to a decision to exterminate.

In the end, I had testified against her. It had been my clear duty.

“You’re like a new person,” Joanne said, coming up behind me. She had been the one who had steered me to a cult-rehabilitation center for deprogramming after she . . . he had been taken away.

“I owe my life to you,” I admitted. “I had become cold, alienated, distant, and defensive.”

“He had you under his complete control,” she said.

“He” — even after all the help I’ve received it seems odd thinking of Ben/Sarah as a “he.”

She continued. “But now you’re warm, friendly, affectionate, and good-humored.”

“Ben was an agent of the devil,” I said, parroting what I had heard at least a thousand times, in the last six months. “Thank goodness our government has the courage to do the right thing with those people.”

“Thank goodness.” I echoed my own statement at a much lower volume.

The flames licked at the side of her face. A face I had once loved . . . and now?

The End

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Baseball players are the most superstitious of all athletes. Andy has played baseball his entire life and is currently a Minnesota Twin in the twilight of his career. The Twins win a game after Andy shaves his leg for the first time. When the players decide that there is a causal relationship between Andy becoming more feminine and winning games -- all heaven breaks loose.

A classic transgender tale now available on Kindle. Click on the image to buy or read via Kindle Unlimited. And, like all of Angela's DopplerPress books, the proceeds go to support BigCloset.

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This story was inspired by the contest. Since I’m a judge, this story is not qualified to participate.

Bro Faks
By Angela Rasch

Chapter One
Cafeteria Blues

Things need to change between Pete and me. I thought.

“Do you remember when I got that infection last fall, during football season?” I asked a barely aware Hannibal Schulz. The school allowed us twenty-five minutes to eat, hit the head, and then arrive in our classrooms before the next bell. Supposedly, the short lunchbreak was meant to cut down on drug trafficking. Mainly, rushing lunch creates gas in the fourth period.

Hannibal reluctantly put down his fork and looked up from the tuna surprise he had been inhaling. He was the first three-hundred-pound lineman in our high school’s history who had made first-team all-state. His halitosis had also been awarded dubious recognition as Worst in Conference in a poll taken of all the senior football players in the Mid-City League.

“Who can forget? That boil on your ass nearly kept you out of the playoffs. We would’ve been screwed without our QB. We never would’ve gone to U.S. Bank Stadium and won state, if you hadn’t had that pus ball lanced.”

“For almost two horseshit weeks, I had to sit on the freaking hemorrhoid donut pillow,” I complained.

“Bro, what made you think of that disgusting shit?” he asked while finishing off the third of six chocolate-covered Rice Krispies bars he’d piled on his lunch tray.

My parents named me Elijah – Elijah Faks – but everyone calls me “Bro.” “Tomorrow is our last day of school before our Christmas break,” I answered. “The next thing you know they’ll be yakking about a big ball dropping in Times Square and everyone will have made New Year’s resolutions.”

“Not everyone.” His gigantic left hand wrapped itself around a meat and cheese calzone that he apparently would devour in two bites. “Only assholes on YouTube and TikTok fuck with that crap. Why waste your time?” His right hand was franticly scrolling, keeping him current on the pairings for the upcoming bowl games.

The screen on Hannibal’s phone looks like it lost a WWF cage match with a cement mixer. I shrugged. “I do it every year. It’s important to make changes and improve yourself. Last year, I set a goal to lift weights at least four days a week. That really helped. Coach said I added almost eight yards to the maximum distance I could throw an accurate pass. When we got into a third and long, Coach would have me throw a down and out to a tight end.”

“Too bad you couldn’t have done something to increase your speed. It was really close between you and Pete Hare for MVP. A little faster and you might’ve been picked.”

“Precisely,” I growled. “There should be a weight limit for football. He’s barely a buck twenty in his pads. How can anyone sixty pounds lighter than me be a better player? I’m quicker than he is. . .quicker than anyone else on the team. And, I’m craftier. That Pete Hare has become a boil on my ass, just like that furuncle I had last fall.”

“Pete’s okay,” Hannibal allowed. “Coach only played him on five or six key downs a game, and yet he scored the key touchdowns that made the difference in the playoff games. He’s definitely on the LGBT spectrum, but he hasn’t declared, and it don’t matter to me. That stuff only matters to a few losers.”

“Hmmmmm. You might have something there. Pete’s been pissing on my parade. I would have been captain of the tennis team last spring -- if he hadn’t beaten me out by a single vote.”

“We have a tennis team?” Hannibal questioned.

“Uh-huh, butthead! We have a team, and we won the conference. No one knows about us because the conference and state tournaments always happen after the school year ends. That makes us sort of a stealth sport.”

Hannibal downed half a liter of Coke in one astounding pull – followed by a fifteen-second belch. “Better than sex,” he claimed.

“You wouldn’t think so, if you used two hands for sex, like you normally do for eating.”

He grinned, which was good.

He could easily end me.

“I don’t get it,” Hannibal said. “You two should be tight. You and Pete have a lot in common. You’re both super-agile. Both of you are six months older than anyone else in our class.”

“We’re the only ones who are eighteen. That doesn’t mean diddly. We can vote but we can’t legally drink! My dad held me back. He wanted me to have an advantage in sports. Pete’s parents are so laid back they forgot to enroll him in kindergarten when they should have.”

Hannibal laughed, while pantomiming taking a big hit on a joint. “His Mom is the only hippie I’ve ever met. Now that I think about it, Pete and you are the class brainiacs,” he continued.

Pete and I have 4.2 GPAs, which is at the top of our class. One of us will be valedictorian.

“It’s a dead heat as to which one of you is the most popular in our class.”

If it wasn’t for Pete I’d have a kickass app to send to those college entrants pricks. “I really truly hate that guy,” I admitted. “My New Year’s Resolution is to do something so the school sees him for who he really is.”

Hannibal shook his head. “Whatever. Everyone pretty much already knows Pete. I’m going to see if they have any more bear claws.”

I nodded to his back as he surrounded the pastry bar and glared at anyone else who was looking for another sugar treat.

My mind was already deep into plotting.

There are just enough pricks in school to make my plan work. Pete will be toast.

Chapter Two
Setting a Trap

I have to be careful, or Pete will smell a rat!

“Pete,” I said cheerfully. I’d timed my greeting to catch him as he passed the student council’s fundraising table. He always makes time for me with that stupid grin on his face.

The student council was doing a how-many-beans-in-the-jar contest. Anyone could pay a dollar and then guess the total number of beans. The winner would get a year of free “ultimate” car washes at Mary Wilson’s dad’s gas station. She was student council president and obviously the apple of her “daddy’s” eye. She also wanted me to ask her to prom, so she had whispered, “1,487 beans.” in my ear while nibbling on my lobe last Friday, during free period. They would announce the winner today, after fourth period.

“Pete,” I repeated. “How about you and I have a friendly little wager on the bean contest.”

He smiled broadly, but then eyed me suspiciously. “What kind of wager?”

“The winner will be whoever of the two of us picks closer to the actual number of beans,” I proffered.

“Sounds like fun. I always have fun when you and I do things together. How much money do you want to bet?”

“Money’s boring. Let’s make it more interesting.” I have to be careful not to sound too eager. “Let me think. . .. Hmmmm. I got it. You have to wash your tennis clothes, right?”

He nodded ruefully. “Usually, I love helping Mom around the house. I don’t know what it is on this one thing with her. She refuses to wash my tennis things. She thinks tennis is an elitist sport.”

“Uh-huh, that’s crazy. How about -- if I lose, I’ll wash your tennis clothes once a week, for the whole season. I wash most of my clothes. Mom’s getting me ready for college.”

“That would be awesome,” he laughed. “But what if I lose?”

“What do you think?” I asked, setting my snare.

“Heck. I don’t have any idea,” he said. His tiny nose twitched as he thought.

“How about. . .?” I asked slowly. “How about you have to do whatever I ask you to do for a full twenty-four hour day?”

“I trust you, but. . ..” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know? It can’t be anything dangerous, or illegal. I’m not going to break any laws or school rules. And, it can’t be anything unhealthy. It can’t cost me anything. I don’t have much money.”

I have $682 in my savings account I’ve saved from my summer landscaping job. I’m willing to spend it all to achieve my goal. “Okay,” I said. “We have a bet. I accept your terms.”

He giggled lightly. “Okay.” He studied the bean jar for a minute. “I’m going to guess 1,379.”

It was my turn to laugh. “And I’m going to guess 1,425.”

Of course, when they announce the winner and the actual bean count, Mary Wilson’s tip paid off and Pete Hare had lost.

Chapter Three
Salon Day

I picked up Pete early Saturday morning during the first week in January, for my day of telling him what to do. . .and Pete doing it. By the end of the day the anti-woke crowd will have a new favorite target.

I’d brought a winter coat, hat, and gloves that I borrowed from my sister’s closet. She and Pete were about the same size.

His eyes grew to be enormous when I told him he would be wearing the light blue puffer parka, with the white knit stocking cap and gloves. After some hesitancy he put them on.

They fit perfectly. Because of the coat’s design he appears to have a feminine waist and a broader butt.

After a short drive we arrived at our destination. The sign outside of the salon said, “Your life isn’t perfect, but your hair can be.”

“What are we doing here?” Pete asked.

“Here’s the deal, Pete.” I prepared myself to lie. “I have a bet with a bunch of guys on the football team. I’m betting that you’ll back out of our bet. If you refuse to do what I say, I’ll win nearly $700.”

“Did the players on the football team put up all that money because they think I’ll do the right thing?” he asked, with just that hint of pride I’d hoped to hear.

I nodded and grinned slyly. “According to the terms of our bet -- what I ask you to do can’t be illegal, against school rules, unhealthy, or cost you any money. Otherwise, anything goes.”

“Boy. . .. That’s really something. I didn’t know my friends would stand so tall for me.”

“We’re wasting time,” I said impatiently. “You have a salon appointment with someone named ‘Doris’ to give you the works. I told her that you’ll play a girl in a theatre production at our all-boy school. I said you’re going to be Belle in Beauty and the Beast. You’ll go along with being made to look like a girl and keep your mouth shut about our bet. You’ll stick to the cover story.”

“No,” Pete said quietly with stark terror registering on his face, “anything but that. Don’t make me look feminine,” he pleaded.

“Great,” I chuckled. “Just sign this affidavit that you refused to do what I said and I’m $700 richer.” He won’t find out there’s no such bet, until it’s too late for him.

He shuddered. “Oh…okay. I guess. It doesn’t seem right, but. . ..”

I had to semi-drag him into the beauty shop. Drag! How appropriate!

Doris turned out to be a member of community theatre troupe. “I love it when boys step up to do girls’ roles,” she gushed. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be beautiful. That’s what “Belle” means. . .beautiful. It’s a good thing you’re so tiny and adorable.”

Adorable! Pete must be in hell.

Pete’s legs were actually trembling as she led him away.

My exceptional hearing allowed me to eavesdrop.

“You’re going to look so darling,” Doris bubbled. “Your hair is already almost the color of Disney’s Belle. It already is almost long enough. We’ll just put a rinse in it to highlight the feminine color and add extensions. I noticed that your ears are pierced. That will be handy for the dangly earrings in the waltz scene. I’m so jealous of you getting to wear that luscious gown and tiara. We’ll add some acrylic nails. When’s the performance?”

“Tonight -- and tomorrow night,” Pete answered, playing his part.

“Well, Belle,” Doris chirped. “I’ll do your make-up so that it will last for several days. It’ll be best if we remove all your unfortunate body hair -- so you can get into character. Your long hair will look nice with a little wave.” She continued to tell Pete all the wonderful things she would do as she took “her” into the back room. She had Pete’s hand and appeared to be half tugging him behind her.

Once I could no longer make out what she or Pete were saying, I let out a loud, satisfying laugh. I sat and read health and fitness magazines with a sneer.

Two hours later, Pete came out.

I was only sure it was Pete because of the high school sweatshirt he was wearing. Otherwise, he had become Belle, as promised. I managed to keep a straight face even though I was cracking up on the inside. Once those haters see him looking drop dead beautiful, he’ll be done at our high school.

Pete looked at me from under heavily-coated eyelashes. He held up a small white bag. “She made me take all the cosmetics she used on me. I hope you’re happy.”

Chapter Four
Stepping Out with My Baby

I smiled. I’ll be totally pleased with myself when we’re done. “That was only step one. . . ‘Belle.’”

“Pete,” he insisted. “I’m Pete.”

“Okay,” I allowed, “I’ll call you ‘Pete’ -- but it might be uncomfortable for you if I call you ‘Pete,’ when I take you to Victoria’s Secret to buy underwear.”

He blushed so furiously that I was pretty sure I could see it through his make-up.

He looks ready to make a run for it. But where would he go? He doesn’t have money for an Uber. That reminds me, I need to have him pick out a purse to carry.

“Please, Faks. I don’t need any new underwear. I’m good.”

I shook my head. “You need a bra -- with panties to match.”

“Not a bra!” He closed his eyes, while apparently imagining the terror of wearing that “girls only” apparel.

He looks hopping mad. “Wonderful! All you have to do is refuse what I tell you to do, and I’ll win my money." Actually – when he stares up at me with those incredible eyes, I’m tempted to do whatever ‘she’ wants.

He’s going to cry!

Belle composed herself. “No. I’m not going to let all the guys down,” she vowed.

I took a few pictures with my phone. “I need to validate that you started to do I said, to win my bet when you chicken out.” I’m going to post them on TikTok.

I had called ahead and arranged to have our “actor” measured for a bra and panties.

“Cindy” helped us. She assured Belle that about five percent of Victoria’s customers had a similar secret.

Belle wore the rose-colored panties and matching padded 32a bra out of the store. The small new mounds on her chest tipped the scale to GIRL.

To make the occasion more memorable I bought her a bottle of Pure Seduction and misted the air around her. Again, I had to struggle to keep from breaking out giggling.

That perfume is crazy sexy. I surreptitiously adjusted my junk to keep the excitement below my belt from showing.

The next stop was a tattoo shop. “She needs a tramp stamp,” I explained to the ink artist.

“A recent discovery has lead researchers to believe that ancient Egyptian women were adorned with lower back tattoos to protect themselves and others during childbirth,” the artist told us.

“If I pay for a tramp stamp for you, you’re not going to get pregnant. . .are you?” I teased Belle.

Belle bit her lip anxiously, looking extremely fertile. “I. . .Is this necessary?”

I nodded. “Only if you don’t want your friends to lose.”

After agreeing to a small $45 pink, furry rabbit, “Belle” carefully lowered herself onto the table and eased down the backside of her pants and panties.

The tattoo was so cute I produced a $10 tip for the artist.

Our next stop was a dress shop. Belle turned out to be a size six and looked so girly shopping for it, we didn’t bother with the cover story.

We looked at six or seven dresses before the woman waiting on us brought out what she said was the perfect dress to match Belle’s make-up and cascading hair.

“This dress features this cute side tie accent at the waist,” the sales woman enthused. “The designer is Lilly Pulitzer Bryson. Notice its long sleeves. It can be either casual or formal depending on your accessories. This lemon-colored aesthetic animal print is extremely popular. It has a crew neckline with sheath fit and short-length silhouette. There’s just enough spandex in it to assure a flattering fit.”

I choked at the $149 price tag, but the saleswoman said we’d get twenty percent off, if we bought matching shoes.

Again, Belle protested. “I already have plenty of shoes.”

“But you don’t have any to match your eyes,” I said. Strangely, I want her dress and shoes to make her hazel eyes pop.

“Belle is the only Disney princess with hazel eyes,” the shop clerk said.

“We” decided she should wear the dress and the three-inch pointy heels out of the store. Pete didn’t seem to have any trouble walking in her size six heels despite all the begging she had done with her eyes that I please not buy them for her.

“Are we done?” Pete coaxed, after I’d paid for her outfit.

There isn’t much Pete left. During the day her body movements and her voice have adjusted to her appearance. She now sounds and looks . . . sexily-sophisticated. “I can’t leave you all dressed up with nowhere to go,” I said. “When I won all-conference honors for football, one of the prizes was a meal for two at The Lexington on Grand Avenue.”

An hour later, after much coaxing, we ate steak Diane with grilled asparagus. Belle had made a quiet protest saying, “All I need is a lettuce salad.”

But I knew what she really wanted.

I’ll give Pete credit, there have been a lot more smiles than I would have thought. With the wait staff fawning over her, she must feel safe.

When we got back to my car, Belle took my hand. “Please. Please. Let’s end this now. I know that any girl you spent that much money on -- would feel ‘obligated.’ Please don’t take me to the back of Como Park. I just couldn’t stand that.”

Como Park was the local lovers’ lane. More babies were conceived there in cars than in beds in any other part of the city.

I almost caved in to her demands. I’m not going to let her tell me what to do.

We hardly talked on the five-minute drive up Lexington Parkway to Midway Parkway and Como Park.

I had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel.

Belle sat rigidly and stared straight ahead.

I sighed as we pulled into a secluded parking spot. My arm went around her, and I stared into those stunning hazel eyes.

“For heaven’s sake, Faks,” she said. “Surely we don’t have to go this far for you to win a bet. Surely you remember that I’m. . ..” She never finished. Her arms suddenly circled my neck. Her kiss declared unconditional love with no expiration date.

After a chocolate-covered minute, she morphed into an animal in heat.

A half an hour later, after she had done things I had only read about, she turned to me. She had daintily swallowed everything she’d sucked out of me, fixed her lipstick, and now was grinning. “There was never any bet with the football team, was there?”

I begrudgingly shook my head.

“Mary Wilson told you how many beans were in that jar, didn’t she.”

I executed an embarrassed nod.

She poked me. “You’re such a big sweetie! I figured out right away what you were up to. You know that I’m too timid to come out on my own. You did all this to help me.”

“Uhmmm,” I lied. I’ll devote the rest of my life to being as good a person as she thinks I am.

“Mary’s a slut. That’s okay,” she cooed, showing signs of wanting to sexually attack me again. “There’s something you should know.” She giggled prettily. “I was born and raised in dresses. I’ve always known I’m a girl. Mom has been buying me female clothing since I was a baby. I spend a lot of time on weekends and vacations with Mom as her daughter. Born and raised as a girl.”

“Mary Wilson can suck it,” I promised. “You and I are going to prom, together.”

“Mary Wilson cannot ‘suck it.’ It’s mine. On Monday, I’m going to introduce everyone to Belle. Or, if you’d like, you can call me ‘Bunny.’”

She wiggled her nose and proceeded to again gnaw on what she had ten minutes previously named my “humongous carrot.”

The End

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Cary learns about life at an early age, which is TFB for him.

Cary
by Angela Rasch

Cary slowed from his sprint, once he was in sight of his house and no longer feared for his life.

I don’t need to cause Mommy any more worry than she has already.

He skipped the last fifty feet to their front gate. His hands flew in that carefree way that spoke of his inner femininity.

Cary then plastered a smile on his face. “A smile is a happiness you find right under your nose,” he announced to the world, while he pulled open their front door.

Everything about their house indicated that it was a no-man-allowed-zone. Ever since his father had given up on their family, and moved two states away, Cary and his mother had finally been free to decorate their house just exactly the way they wanted.

The air spoke of the fresh potpourri they had mixed just that last weekend. Every square inch of space was devoted to the kinder, gentler side of nature that only those with feminine spirits can appreciate.

“Did you have a nice day, Cary?” Her voice carried from the kitchen where the hour suggested she would be concocting something scrumptious. They both watched their figures like owlets, so their dinner would be tasty -- but non-fattening.

Should I tell her?

Cary looked around their home and thanked his lucky stars that his father was at least competent enough as a businessman to provide a lifestyle of ease for his mother and him. . .. He owed them that much, seeing as how he wasn’t capable of providing the kind of emotional support Cary really needed.

She needs to know. “I had a situation on the way home from school. . .again.”

“Oh no!”

He could hear sounds that indicated his mother was setting her cooking aside.

Cary set down the large, leather purse that he used for a book bag.

His father had screamed foul language at his mother when he saw what she had purchased for Cary.

Things are much more peaceful, since the divorce.

Within a moment, she joined him in their pleasantly appointed living room and pulled him into a warm hug. “What happened, my little sweetie-pie?”

“It was those boys, again,” Cary said, his mouth twisting around “boys” as if he had eaten a pickle.

“Darling,” his mother admonished, “you know what I’ve told you about playing with boys. Didn’t you walk home from school, with Susie and Cheryl?”

Cary smiled involuntarily at the mention of his BFFs. Susie and Cheryl were his most-closest friends. They spent most of their afternoons after school playing with him. They either played dolls or dress-up, with their mothers’ clothes. Both Susie and Cheryl’s mothers were divorced. So, they all had that in common.

Sadly, all three children had to see their fathers two or three times a year, Fortunately, the visits occurred, only if their mothers were along, to monitor their fathers’ actions.

“They had cheerleading practice today,” Cary said. Both Cary and his mother frowned at the word “cheerleading.” Their lawsuit, to force the school to allow him to take part on the fifth-grade cheerleading squad, was pending.

The school had said he could be on the squad. But Principal Peter had done the normal male thing and drawn a line, at allowing Cary to wear the same uniform as the girls. The Principal, thinking with his male organs and not his brain, thought Cary should wear something more “male-oriented.”

“Like a jock-strap!” his mother had harrumphed, at the school board meeting when Mr. Peter made his sexist announcement.

“So, what’s bothering my little Snookumsa,” his mother said. She ran her fingers through his ringlets, which made both of them smile, in delight.

“I stopped by the park, for a second, to watch the boys in my class play baseball,” Cary said. “I didn’t have any interest in playing.”

“Of course not,” his mother gasped. “You could’ve broken a nail. Besides, I’ve seen the men they pick for coaches. I wouldn’t want you within a mile of any of them. They strut around absolutely reeking of testosterone.”

“That’s what caused the trouble,” Cary said. He looked down at his shirt, which wasn’t all that feminine, although his mother had bought it in a boutique and it was a color most boys wouldn’t wear.

They had to shop in boutiques, to avoid any chance of a man waiting on them, with all the attending bias.

“Testosterone? What happened?” His mother’s eyes had grown to the size of an overnight moisturizer jar lid, and she had adopted a no-nonsense posture with one foot slightly back of the other -- for good balance.

“It was the way that the boys reek -- that caused all the trouble,” Cary said demurely. He took a seat on the couch and patted a spot next to himself, for his mother. He lovingly touched the gold studs in his ears and made a mental note to wear something more dangly, for dinner.

“Oh,” she said in total agreement, “I know. They should make boys shower after every recess. But please -- go on. Whatever happened, I’m sure we can deal with it.” She smiled bravely. The two of them had been through so much, trying to exist in a male-dominated world.

“It was Tommy who started it,” Cary explained.

“I could have guessed,” she responded. “If there ever was a boy who should be feminized, it’s that Tommy.”

Cary nodded knowingly, thinking about dresses that might possibly look good on Tommy’s rather square body. He sighed. It’s truly wonderful that I’m blessed with a thin, small frame. “It’s not his fault entirely,” Cary allowed. “I’ve met his father and grandfather. He comes by ‘it’ naturally.”

“It” was how Cary and his mother referred to machismo, the worst virus known.

Cary’s mother drummed the coffee table, with her long nails. “I say again, if ever there was a boy who should be forced to wear dresses it’s Tommy.”

Cary clapped his hands together with glee -- at the very notion. Then he frowned. “Too bad he doesn’t have a mommy like you.”

“There are some men who should be locked up or castrated -- so that we don’t have to worry about them,” she said, waving a warning finger in her son’s face. Her smile softened. “You did a nice job with your eyes today, especially the liner.”

“Thank you. You’ve been a great teacher.” His smile faded as he considered the subject at hand. “Oh, I know . . . they’re all devils.” Cary looked puzzled for a moment. “Mommy, if boys are so bad, why do I feel all gooey around them, sometimes.”

“That’s nature’s way of preserving our species. Our bodies tempt us to let down our defenses -- so we breed. Ugh! There are better ways to satisfy those urges. When you’re old enough, I’ll show you how easily men are replaced.” She closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “The thing you need to realize is that all men are liars. They pretend to be wild about you, to get you into bed. But after a while, they will all turn against you. Every man I’ve ever known has eventually given into his basic instincts and decided to hate me.”

Cary’s eyes were wide open absorbing everything his mommy told him.

“What did Tommy do to you?” She asked.

“It all started innocently,” Cary said, thinking how castration was a fate too good, for most males. He quietly picked up a nail file and started to work on his cuticle. They always did his nails, before dinner. “Tommy asked me why I wear perfume to school.”

“That’s a strange question,” she said, admiring how diligently her son approached his personal grooming, “even for a boy.”

Cary nodded. “That’s what I thought. I told him I wasn’t wearing perfume. Can you imagine? Who would ever wear perfume to school?”

They both laughed at how stupid males often can be.

“I told him that the scent he was smelling was a combination of my body wash, deodorant, and bath powder.”

“Is that when he started making fun of you? I’ve warned his mother about him picking on you. We could get another restraining order.”

Cary giggled, thinking about how many boys had to stay at least one hundred feet away from him. “No, I could tell he actually like my lavender scent. I wanted to do something nice for him, in return.”

“That was sweet of you.” She gave him a hug that spoke of her pride. “What did you do?”

“Tommy smelled like something between a dead squirrel and a dog’s gland. I leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear, telling him just that. I didn’t want to embarrass him, in front of all those other boys. But he needed to know. Only a true friend would ever tell him something like that.”

“You did the right thing.” She patted his hand.

Cary felt the smoothness of her skin and grinned when he remembered all the lotions he used to be just as soft as her. “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.” He pushed an errant hair behind his ear, in a move that hadn’t been “natural” for him -- until he had practiced it for hours, in front of his floor-to-ceiling bedroom mirror. “Tommy evidently misheard me because he got really angry and said something I just could never repeat. I thought it best to get out of there before something awful happened. I ran all the way home. I’m sure the boys were chasing me because that’s what their kind does.”

“Oh, Cary! Do you mean all those men coaches stood around and allowed Tommy to scare you, without doing anything to save you?”

Cary nodded.

“Typical. Thank goodness you got home safely. Home is your oasis. Are you sure you’re okay.”

“I was so worried they would catch me and de-pants me.”

His mother nodded knowingly. She had many times told Cary the story of how she had run away from her grandfather -- when she had been sure that he had been thinking about molesting her.

Cary had discarded all of his male underthings that previous fall and wore only panties. He had made a slip of the tongue one day in class, about how nice it felt to be wearing nylon panties rather than horrid cotton underwear.

Ever since -- the boys were always trying to embarrass Cary by pulling down his jeans.

Principal Peter refused to warn the boys to stop.

“Mom,” Cary asked. “Do you think I’ll ever have beautiful breasts like yours?”

She smiled. “I’m so glad we were able to get the clinic to start your hormone treatments.” It had taken nearly six months, in court, to force the horrible man who ran the clinic, to do the right thing. They had found a wonderful female attorney who used legal magic, to help them.

Cary was the youngest boy they knew of, to be approved, for hormone therapy.

“We’re so lucky that we were able to get your case in front of a female judge. She didn’t see you as an eleven-year-old boy. But as a girl whose body would soon be poisoned by testosterone.”

“I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” Carrie enthused, glancing down at the outline of a training bra under her blouse. “Once I have my surgery, in a few years, I will have successfully avoided male-patterned ‘oafiness.’”

They laughed and gave each other a soft, celebratory, high-five.

Carrie became serious. “I am a girl -- aren’t I, Mommy?”

She shook her head at the obvious fishing, for a compliment. “Of course, you are, Honey.”

“Mom,” Carrie stated, “I can’t wait for the day when they cut off my ugly penis and testicles.”

His mother laughed gaily. “I think I know exactly how you feel. But nice girls don’t say nasty words like that out loud.”

Carrie looked puzzled. “I’m confused. You and I often talk about the advantages of having a vagina.”

“You must never let a man tell you not to speak openly about women’s issues. They try to make us uncomfortable with our own bodies. But, Carrie,” her mother warned sternly, “there is a world of difference between a vagina and a penis.”

A happy, healthy daughter nodded and skipped merrily out of the room.

All was well, in the world of two women -- where everything was approached with an eye for balance.

***

I woke to the sound of my dad calling me for breakfast.

I have to hurry. My little league game starts in an hour. I’m pitching today. Tom and Mario think I might pitch a non—hitter!

I grinned while running my hand through my brush-cut. That was one crazy nightmare I had last night.

A boy in our class, Stephan, walks funny and must have made me think of all that crazy stuff.

Dad’s my best friend and the greatest guy in the world.

My coach is amazing and makes me feel good about myself. Playing baseball is my favorite time of the week.

My principal is a woman who loves all of us.

However. . .!

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:

Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Thing You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the SnakeI have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

See the story.

Funny, funny story.

Dick on Jane
By Angela Rasch

See Jane.

Jane is a girl.

Jane is a big girl.

Look, look

See the ball.

See the other ball.

See the balls.

Look, look

See the dick.

Up dick, up.

It is a big dick.

Look, look

Balls on Jane.

Look, look

Dick on Jane.

Funny, funny Jane.

Funny, funny dick.

Funny, funny dick on Jane.

Jane is a poof.

Funny, funny Jane.

Funny, funny poof.

Funny, funny dick.

Funny, funny dick on Jane.

Funny, funny poof.

I can make Jane run.

Run, Jane, run.

Run, poof, run.

Look, look.

See the stairs.

I can make Jane run up the stairs.

Run up the stairs Jane.

Run up the stairs, poof.

Run, Jane, run.

Run, poof, run.

Up, up, up.

Up, up, up.

Funny, funny Jane.

Funny, funny poof.

Up, up, up.

Up, up, up.

Jump, Jane, jump

Jump, poof, jump.

Funny, funny Jane

Funny, funny poof.

Look, look.

Down, Jane, down

Down, poof, down.

Look, look.

See the spot.

The End

---

~o~O~o~

---

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

 

Ed makes an accidental discovery at work that challenges his ideology. Should he go to HR and demand that Carl act appropriately, at least while he’s at work?

Divine Intervention
By Melanie E. and Angela Rasch

I was in the company’s art supply room, searching for a ream of white, thirty-two pound copy paper I needed for an advertising piece for our upcoming sale.

Ten feet from me, in the same aisle of shelves, Carl strained to pull a large box of presentation folders out of a lower shelf. He had squatted down to get good leverage, exposing his underwear in the process.

He’s wearing panties!

They were light blue Fruit of the Loom hi-cuts. I’d spent an embarrassing fifteen minutes a few weeks back while pushing a cart through Target with my wife, Marge. In what had felt like an eon, I had learned more about Fruit of the Loom panties than I ever would have thought possible.

Carl’s my best friend. He’s the last person I would ever suspect of being a pervert. We’ve coached youth baseball together. He serves on the church finance committee with me.

Where did things go wrong for him? I thought.

My first inclination was to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

I’m a God-fearing man. My religious beliefs have served me well -- and will serve me well in the hereafter.

When the excrement hits the fan, I have my faith to fall back on. If Carl wasn’t my best friend, it would be simple. I would withhold fellowship from him going forward.

But he *is* my best friend. He’s a good person, and we share the same set of values.

At least . . . I’d thought we had the same values before seeing what he was wearing for underwear.

The Bible defines humanity as made up of males and females. “So, God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.” Genesis 1:27.

There’s nothing in there about half-way genders. . .and Carl knows the Bible as well as I do.

What’s the deal? Should I confront him? Should I talk to HR?

“Carl, we need to talk.” I’d finally regained my ability to speak.

“Carl,” the speaker on the wall blared, “you’re needed in meeting room 287.”

“Sorry, I gotta jet outta here, Ed.” He bolted from the storeroom before I could spit out the stern words I had quickly prepared.

It’s 4:40. At 5:00 I’ll punch out and go home. I’ll pray on this dilemma and see what tomorrow brings.

***

That evening, after a delicious meal of burgers and fries from Culver’s -- delivered by DoorDash -- I isolated myself in our home office and pulled out my well-worn Bible.

I hadn’t burdened Marge with the news of what I had seen. At the moment, this is between Carl, me, and the Lord.

As I’ve done so many times, I thumbed through the pages and allowed the Lord to lead me to a relevant passage. I landed on Matthew 25:40. “And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.’”

I shuddered. Transvestites are definitely *the least of these.*

I need to find a way to be tolerant of Carl’s weirdness.

The Lord is trying to tell me to be tolerant and give Carl the benefit of the doubt.

However, Carl’s wrestling with Satan for his eternal soul’s salvation. As his best friend, I have a duty to help him.

I thumbed my Bible again and came down on James 5:13. “Are any among you suffering? They should pray. Are any cheerful? They should sing songs of praise. Are any among you sick? They should call for the elders of the church and have them pray over them, anointing them with oil in the name of the Lord. The prayer of faith will save the sick, and the Lord will raise them up, and anyone who has committed sins will be forgiven. . ..”

I recognized the passage as the Prayer of the Faithful. I need to ask the Lord for his help.

I knelt and called upon God. “Dear Lord, my friend Carl has a need. Please see your way to help him find peace on Earth.”

Rising from my knees, I went to the rec room where Marge was watching real estate “porn” on HGTV.

“Marge,” I started softly, “something bad happened today.”

She turned to me with a look of panic. “We’ve been through a lot and come out okay. Whatever it is, we’ll make do.”

“It’s Carl,” I disclosed. “There’s no way to soft-pedal this. Carl was wearing panties today at work. I saw them when he bent over in the storeroom.”

“So?” She asked, her face expressing relief.

“For gosh sakes! Carl was wearing panties today! Light-blue, Fruit-of-the-Loom panties.” I had raised my voice. I didn’t want to shout at Marge, but she wasn’t giving the situation the gravitas it deserved.

She shook her head slowly. “Carl’s been wearing panties for almost sixteen months.”

“Sixteen months? We’re in the middle of January! You’re saying Carl’s been wearing panties since the beginning of October -- more than a year ago?”

“That’s right, Hon,” she said soothingly.

“How? What? Why?” I sputtered.

“It started with Halloween costumes,” she explained.

“How can dressing up like the Flintstones and the Rubbles cause Carl to wear panties?” I had been Fred, and Marge had been Wilma. Carl and Georgia were Barney and Betty Rubble. “I made a pretty good Fred, and Carl’s short enough to look like a good Barney. You and Georgia were sweet Bedrock beauties. All we needed was a Bam-Bam and a Pebbles.”

“That was this past year,” Marge corrected. “Carl started wearing panties the year before that. You were Ken, and I was Barbie. You were a very handsome Ken. . .*much* more handsome than Ryan Gosling. Remember? Georgia and Carl went as Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy.”

“I remember,” I acknowledged. “Carl won first place as Raggedy Anne. You and Georgia worked with him for weeks on feminine mannerisms and posture. That Raggedy Anne costume was a little racy. Raggedy ‘French Maid’ Anne costume would be a more proper name -- with its puffed-out, skimpy skirt, and that real-hair, red wig. Most of the people at the party who didn’t know Carl assumed he was a woman. Georgia was cute as Raggedy Andy in boys’ clothes.”

“Carl was wearing panties under that short skirt.”

“Are you trying to tell me that for the last... over a year... Carl’s simply forgotten to take off those. . ..” I shook in disgust. ". . .panties? I’m not buying it.”

Marge shook her head. “During the process of getting ready for that Halloween, Carl had a talk with Georgia and me. He told us about his gender dysphoria.”

“What’s gender dysphoria?”

“I’ve been studying it a bit. It's when someone's gender identity and their physical sex don't match up.”

“What do you mean by ‘gender identity?’” I asked.

She bit her lip. “Carl’s gender identity is female. That’s what he fundamentally feels his gender is.”

That’s crazy talk! I thought. “We are what we are,” I argued.

“Yes, we are,” Marge agreed. “And Carl identifies as a woman.”

A light bulb went on in my head. “So, all those weeks when you and Georgia were teaching him how to talk and walk and things. . .that wasn’t just to win the Halloween prize.”

“No,” she admitted. “We were teaching her life lessons.”

“‘*Her*?’”

Marge simply nodded. “Ed, how long have you known Carl?”

“We met at work. We both started on the same day. Wiston Windows hired me to work in their design department using my mechanical engineering degree. Car has a sociology degree, and was hired to be a sales rep. We went through orientation and a year of management training together.”

“How long was that before you met me?”

I stared at Marge momentarily, remembering how amazingly beautiful she had been when I first saw her. She had officiated a recreational soccer game I was playing, and before that she had been a scholarship soccer player for the University of Minnesota. “Carl and I worked together for about three years before I met you. You and I went on two movie dates before you suggested I find a friend for your roommate so we could double date. Georgia and Carl hit it off at once.”

“Georgia was my best friend in college. We played four years of varsity soccer together.” Marge closed her eyes. “Our best friends mean a lot to us. You have to get your mind right about Carl.”

“I know. Today was a shock.”

“Maybe it would help if you would concentrate on why Carl’s your best friend.”

I thought for a moment. “I admire him. He was adopted by an elderly couple who were more like his grandparents. Did I ever tell you that Carl puts flowers on their graves weekly?”

“I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t surprise me.”

I went on. “Carl is one of the gentlest human beings I know. He manages to be an excellent salesperson with an almost meek demeanor. I think the secret to his ability to sell so much is that he’s constantly seeking righteousness in every deal he makes.”

Marge smiled. “Remember when he discovered that one of the new workers in his unit was stealing from the company?”

“Carl was the only management team member – including me - who advocated mercy. It turned out the man needed money for an operation for his son that wasn’t covered by insurance. Wiston let the man go, but following Carl’s leadership, we then donated a substantial amount to the Go Fund Me account that Carl had set up to help pay for the needed operation.”

“Carl has a pure soul.”

I laughed. “Jake Wiston calls Carl our ‘Peacemaker.’ When the owner of the company recognizes that ability, it says something.”

I looked at Marge and remembered when my Dad had called her “a room-stopper.” Marge is as beautiful as she was as my bride. She’s never sick. Germs and other bad things never go near her.

***

I prayed for the next twelve nights, asking for the Lord’s intervention. Carl’s a good man. With God’s help he’ll see the Light and find what he needs.

***

I tried to move on with my life as normal and ignore the truth I now knew about my best friend.

It was rough at times. When we would coach I sometimes found myself watching him more closely, in case he tried anything with one of the kids like I had heard his kind liked to do. All I saw was the same man I had known for years, with the same gentle demeanor, handing out water and applying band-aids, and doing his best to encourage everyone to have fun, whether we win or lose.

I always struggled with that namby-pamby sentiment. I had grown up being told that you were either a winner, or a loser . . . and only one was acceptable. Carl had been the one to help me see the harm in that viewpoint.

Carl and Georgia were over for a barbeque, and he was helping me with the burgers. He'd brought a twelve-pack of brewskis that he and I would put a dent into while we watched Monday Night Football. The Vikings were playing the Packers, and neither one of us would want to miss even a single down.

I stood close to Carl while checking on the grilling meat. Much to my surprise, Carl was wearing perfume. It was subtle, but I detected the unmistakable scent of Amazing Grace.

I’d given Marge a $64 bottle of that feminine cologne for Valentine’s Day. She loved it, and we had a nice Valentine’s night. Dinner at the Eagle’s Club, then a drink at Curly’s Hideout. We even stayed up and watched a little of one of those Disney movies on cable.

But perfume on Carl? It just isn’t right.

After they went home, I checked my Bible. “A woman shall not wear a man’s apparel, nor shall a man put on a woman’s garment; for whoever does such things is abhorrent to the LORD your God.” Deuteronomy 22:5.

From Bible study, I knew that it was the only verse in the Bible that directly references gender-based notions of clothing. We discussed that passage with our minister. He said it had more to do with fraud and doing your duty than crossdressing, but I had my doubts.

That sounds quite specific.

Once again, I sat down with Marge. “Did you notice Carl’s perfume?”

She nodded. “I love Amazing Grace. Thank you for buying it for me.”

“But. . .should Carl be wearing it?”

Marge stared at me. "You seem upset. Is there something wtong?"

“It’s Carl,” I admitted. “He’s getting peculiar.”

“Peculiar?” Marge arched an eyebrow.

“You know. He’s been swimming a lot and has dropped a lot of weight. He’s downright skinny. He’s been shaving his body to aid his swimming. His bare arms look ‘peculiar.’”

“What Carl does with his body hair is none of your business, is it? Ed... you’re not ashamed to be known as Carl’s best friend, are you?”

Marge’s face has turned red.

“No! Heck no!” I said firmly. “I just wish he’d get a haircut and cut his fingernails more often.”

Marge shook her head. “You once told me that you envied Carl. Has that changed?”

I considered her question. “No. Carl can walk into a room where he doesn’t know hardly anyone, and within minutes he’s got down everyone’s name and knows pertinent facts about most of them. He cares about people and is fun to be around. How can you not admire that? But . . . what does Georgia think about the panties and perfume?”

“In college, Georgia was voted the happiest person on our soccer team. She and I have had dozens of talks about Carl. Her happiness has never wavered. She has done everything she can to support Carl’s needs. They appear more in love today than they’ve ever been.”

***

I prayed again that night, and each night for the next three weeks. “Lord, in your Divine wisdom, please help Carl obtain peace of mind to relieve his turmoil.”

***

The interoffice memo hit my desk on Tuesday at 11:30.

= Please note that the employee previously known as Carl Watko is now known as Brittany Watko, and the pronouns “she” and “her” are to be used to address or name her. Brittany will be using the women’s restrooms. Wiston Windows is committed to treating all our employees with respect and dignity. We have a zero-tolerance policy on discrimination, harassment, and intolerance. The company website can be accessed within the employee portal for resources and point-of-contact should you have questions. =

For Heaven’s sake! What has he done?

Carl was dressed in a woman’s business suit that fit the... curves?!... of his body, and a silk blouse with a large bow at the neck. His hair has been curled and styled.

He’s wearing a wig and make-up!

I took a half day of personal leave and left the building.

***

I called our minister from my car and got an immediate appointment.

He’s been with us for four years. We’re lucky to keep him. He’s had several attractive offers to leave us for bigger churches. He’s a great communicator and has shown terrific judgment.

“Paster Saylor,” I asked, after explaining what had occurred at work, “where did I go wrong? I prayed to the Lord, and now. . ..”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the minister said.

“There was nothing mysterious about my plea,” I whined. “Carl needed heavenly help to find a route to spiritual peace.”

“Is that what you asked God to do? Did you ask Him to help Brittany find what she needed?”

It felt wrong for the minister to refer to Carl as “Brittany,” but I let it pass. “I prayed on it for over a month, every night.”

“Praying isn’t always answered in the way we think it will be. But in this case, it seems like God granted Brittany the strength she needed to come out and start her public transition.”

My temper was starting to kick in. I’d never felt anger toward a man of the cloth before. “How can you be so complacent? Carl’s lost to eternal damnation. This isn’t at all what I wanted!”

“Isn’t it?” He asked.

“Not at all,” I growled. “I specifically asked God to help Carl find peace on earth. Instead, he’s gone down a path of self-destruction.”

The minister shook his head. “From where I’m sitting, it seems like the Lord granted you what you asked for. I’ve talked to Brittany and Georgia. They’re at peace with their decision. I think she did the right thing.”

“What?” I sputtered. “The Bible is quite. . ..”

“The Bible is quite *gray* on transgender issues.” He shook his head. “Though, had you asked me nine months ago, I would have felt much different.”

I thought for a moment and felt my blood turn cold. “You mean after the Mason’s teenager committed suicide?”

“Uh-huh. It was nine months ago that Christina came out, and her family walked away from her. She couldn’t take their rejection. I spent weeks studying the transgender issue after her untimely passing.” A tear escaped from his eye. “I was less than helpful for her.”

“But the Bible says. . ..”

He stopped me with a raised hand. “The Bible has been interpreted by men, who have tried their best. But what if they’re wrong? Paul’s letter to the Corinthians tells us that we are bound to see truth in a way that is incomplete, a mere reflection. 'As in a mirror, dimly.' Corinthians 13:12. The Bible calls its interpreters to the awareness that even if ultimate truth about any subject isn’t always in our grasp, we can remain committed to trying to find it.”

“So. . .as a Christian, should I continue to give Brittany fellowship, and welcome her with open arms at church?” I asked in wonder.

“Most assuredly. We owe her the Christian response of tolerance. Matthew 22:39: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” He nodded. “We live in a new world every day. The Holy Spirit lives amongst us, offering guidance for us to consider.”

“But, Reverend, God doesn’t make mistakes.”

He smiled and patted my shoulder. “You’re right, God doesn't make mistakes. However, sometimes men and women make mistakes. They look at newborns and make assumptions about their gender that don't match the gender in that person's soul.”

I left the minister’s home that day a changed man -- looking for a new and enlightened future, and happy to have had the Lord’s ear when my best friend Brittany needed it.

The End

2024-11-01 14:10:32 -0400

The moon is in its seventh house. Greg is on his very first high. The dawning of the Age of Aquarius came late to Bellington College. Greg finds love, but will he risk all to keep it?

Do What You Wanna Do
By Angela Rasch

If I could have shaved without a mirror, I would have avoided all the lies and deception it offered. It falsely reflected a college senior about to embark on his last nine months on campus honing his talents and social skills, in order to conquer the world. He looked relatively happy with himself and unafraid of the challenges ahead.

Lies, all of it, except for the fact that next spring I would graduate from Bellington College with a B.A. in sociology.

“Greg,” my roommate called from the hall, outside the communal bathroom in our fraternity house, “are you coming with? We’re leaving for breakfast, in five minutes.”

“No, you guys go on ahead. I’ve got some things to do this morning.”

He knew I couldn’t get ready to go along that quickly -- and I knew they didn’t really want me to go along, because I added almost nothing to their fun. The game the brothers of Epsilon Delta played pretended that we were a society of equals, brothers to one and all.

“Bothers” to one and all would be more like it. Each interpersonal frat relationship carried the weight of group expectations and needs.

I couldn’t be glib, like them -- and I preferred the sidelines to actual participation, in most discussions.

Twenty minutes later, I meandered across the campus mall toward a solitary breakfast in the Student Union. I would have a healthy breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, ham, and butter-fried potatoes -- a high protein diet to get me off to a good start.

Discarded picket signs, on the mall, indicated some sort of protest had occurred.

About a hundred radical students, who thought Indiana was Haight-Ashbury, always stirred up trouble about Southeast Asia.

Summer of love? Not here. Not in my world.

The chances of me getting drafted seemed pretty remote. I had voted for McCarthy --but that hadn’t gotten me anywhere. Some said he would actually run for president, in three years in '72. But we would be long out of Vietnam by then -- and he was a one-trick pony.

I probably could have guessed who the protestors had been. Bellington hand-picked its student population from the right families, with a discriminating eye toward the liberal part of a liberal arts education.

Even though most of the guys dressed like ivy-league students, we had our fringe lunatics. According to the student handbook, we supposedly kept an open mind toward all elements, and we tried our hardest to be outwardly accepting.

The leader of the “hippies” had actually spent four years in Southeast Asia, as an advisor. He had been there quite a while ago, before all that crap, with the commies in Tonkin Gulf. He wore a lot of old army clothes -- “fatigues” he called them.

He and his group normally sat in the Student Union drinking coffee and discovering new uses for the word “fuck.”

I had studied “hippies” in Sociology 420, a class about modern movements that occurred around us.

He spoke in a colorful language sprinkled with phrases like “number ten” and “fubar.” He could say "fubar" without most people knowing he had just said "fuck." The old vet had mastered some form of judo while in the army, which stopped some of my fraternity brothers from kicking the shit out of him. Kicking the shit out of assholes was the quickest route to a “Big Man On Campus” designation.

“Could I have the $1.09, please?” I had changed my mind and decided to splurge on a steak and eggs breakfast. The counter woman’s hairnet had seen better days. Her cigarette seemed to be glued to her lower lip. It hung there, even as she counted out my change.

I stood in line for ten minutes, waiting as they grilled my steak, thinking about how I would use my Saturday. I had a speech to prepare for English 306 and a book report on An American Tragedy to write for English Lit. I had decided Theodore Dreiser had given the reader a stern warning, about the care needed in selecting your friends. One bonehead mistake and life is over.

“Who has the $1.09?” The girl behind the counter held out a platter loaded with fried potatoes, eggs, and a twelve-ounce porterhouse.

I reached, but before I could take it from her, a skinny arm attached to a handful of long, slender fingers had beaten me to it.

“Excuse me, Miss,” I said in protest, to the back of her head.

She turned and surprised me with her wispy mustache and skimpy beard. “He” smiled. “Sorry, man. I think we must have ordered the same thing. It’s yours, if you want it.”

My hands extended in front of me -- fingers up and palms toward him -- declining his offer.

My face flushed. Never before had I mistaken a boy for a girl. I struggled to make a proper, profuse apology. “I. . .I. . .. Look I didn’t mean anything by calling you ‘Miss.’”

“No big deal,” he offered. “My old lady has been telling me to get a haircut. But I don’t want to waste the bread.”

“Who has the $1.09?” The girl said it, and offered another plate to whoever would take it -- exactly the same way she had fifteen seconds before, totally oblivious to the enormous harm she had caused.

I grabbed my plate and then turned to find a place to sit. Saturday mornings weren’t particularly busy on campus -- but more than half the room had been roped off, so they could wax the floor.

“We can share that table,” the hippie offered, pointing his plate toward a table for two, that appeared to be the only one in the room available.

I really didn’t want to be seen with him. However, it was likely none of my fraternity brothers -- and certainly none of my instructors -- would be in the cafeteria that early, on a Saturday. Outside of my roommate, and a few others at the house, almost everyone at Epsilon Delta was sleeping off a late-night kegger.

My roommate and his buddies had gone to check out a farmer in the next county, who might allow them to hunt on his land.

I sat down with the long-haired freak -- but kept my head on a swivel, in case someone came in who I knew. I didn’t want the shit kicked out of me -- simply because I had chowed down with a hippie.

He smiled quite a bit more than necessary -- but hadn’t said much. I assumed from the length of his hair, that he had homosexual desires, which made me a little bit nauseous.

We had also briefly discussed homosexuals in my sociology courses -- and I could probably stomach it, if I ever really met one.

A nice-looking girl brought us refills for our coffee. She would keep our cups full as long as we sat there.

Our campus had about ten guys for every one girl and a lot of local girls worked in the cafeteria -- trying to snatch up a college-educated husband.

“My name is Celestial,” he said, “but if that makes you uncomfortable, you can call me Les.” His voice had an airiness to it that matched his long, blond hair. “My old lady says I’m fucked-up to have a name that sounds like a heavenly body. Wow!” He grinned. “That’s some heavy shit she lays on me.”

The stack room of the library suddenly seemed like the perfect place for me. I needed to write my report, re-write it, and then give it to that girl, over in Dymane Hall, who typed papers.

In the interest of learning a bit more about the “hippie” movement, I decided to be brave and sit with him a few more minutes. Contrary to what I had heard -- he didn’t seem to stink. “Why do you grow your hair so long?”

“You’ve got that backward, man. It’s you that’s all hung up on hair. My long hair is natural because I don’t do anything to it. That makes it beautiful -- because it’s in its true state. Being natural is beautiful, don’t you think.”

I nodded but remained unmoved. “Are you a homosexual?”

He snorted, as if my question came out of left field. “Not that I know of. Mostly my hair means I’m willing to stand up for my rights to be a human being, who is harmless to all others."

He sounds like a protester. I’d better be careful, or I’ll end up on an F.B.I. list of subversives.

“The ‘man’ isn’t going to get me on a treadmill of killing for the military-industrial complex.” When he picked up his coffee cup he did so in a delicate way that caused me to check the room again to see who was taking the time to watch us.

He probably suffers from the ill-effects of smoking marijuana, which has a reputation for changing sex genes.

Although our Sociology of Today instructor said no scientific studies had been done, he told us of reported cases of male hippies growing breasts.

“I haven’t seen you around campus before,” I said. If I had, I would have noticed him. My crewcut wasn’t our only contrast. He had probably purchased every stitch of clothing on his back from a thrift shop, including his cracked and broken shoes.

“I transferred in -- because there’s a commune two miles from campus I might live in, if my old lady and I get tired of our apartment. A bunch of us had thought about going to Berkeley, but things have gotten too weird there. I’m just not into all that weird shit, man.”

Obviously! Hair down to his ass -- and he’s “not into weird shit." Riiiight!

“Too much fucking LSD out there,” he moaned. “I’m psychedelic and all that crap, but wow, if I can’t grow it, I don’t want it in me. Know what I mean, man? Now that they’ve fucking made LSD illegal, it’s become a bad trip. Bummer.”

He seemed weirdly rational and maybe even reasonable. I decided to let him know I was hip. “I saw some ‘grass’ once.”

He looked at me as if I had said something funny, but didn’t laugh. “It’s all tied together now so tight it makes my head hurt. This war is fucked-up. Drugs are righteous. Free love is righteous. What we’ve been handed is crap. The whole materialistic bullshit we’ve been fed in Disney cartoons. . .it’s fucked-up shit.”

My mind drifted to the last Disney movie I had seen -- a free movie in the Student Union -- Peter Pan. I chuckled a bit to myself about that scene where the Indians dance to a funny song about what made the red man red. What can be wrong with a simple movie like that?

He pulled a square of tinfoil from an inside pocket of his heavily-beaded vest. “My old lady made brownies last night. Want one?” He tore his brownie in half, and then slid it to me across the Formica surface of the table.

There are certain things about college life that aren’t all that great, such as no brownies. I accepted his gift with a smile.

“If my hair freaks people out,” he said, biting into his half with a huge grin, “I love it. Freaking out people makes them think.”

I bit into my brownie with a little less gusto, worried that it might be old or something, but to my surprise, it tasted wonderful.

For some reason, I found Les totally fascinating. Compared to my straight existence, his life seemed like it had been filmed in Technicolor.

I never made it to the library that morning. Les proudly told me the brownie I ate had been laced with marijuana. At first, I had been incensed – but for some reason, I felt somewhat sanguine. I decided to roll with what happened until the effects of the brownie wore off.

Later at his apartment, Les introduced me to what he called a water-filled “bong.”

After experiencing the dreamy qualities of a marijuana-induced “high” for over thirty minutes, I questioned what other lies the establishment had perpetrated. I hadn’t gone mad smoking dope.

Not once had I wanted to fly like a bird. I felt, for lack of a better phrase, in a groove.

We rapped about everything of importance.

Les’ “old lady” turned out to be a sophomore who called herself Jovian.

“Jovian was a Roman god called Jupiter,” I giggled, staring at her. “You’re not a boy.”

In her short leather skirt, she looked tremendously available. Her legs went all the way up to her. . ..

If her love is free, I’m in. I giggled again.

“Gender shit is crap,” Jovian said, with more authority than I had ever heard from a woman.

My mother had worked outside-the-home for years and had been elected president of the PTA, so I knew about strong women. You couldn’t make Mom shut up and stay in her place. No sir!

“If everyone could just get into nurturing,” Jovian said, “it would be easier to spread the power of peace and kindness.”

I noted that Jovian didn’t throw around “fucks.” I admired that and wanted to make love to her because of it.

Jovian and Les seemed to be two of the kindest, gentlest, sweetest people I had ever met. Compared to them -- my fraternity brothers deserved the “animal” label they coveted.

She sat on the floor with me. My body flung itself all over the place, but she had her legs folded under her and looked quite comfortable.

“The nuclear family is an oppressive invention of an oppressive government,” she said, taking a long “hit” from the bong and then passing it to me.

Les leaned back in his beanbag chair. “I’m thinking about joining the SDS and going to fucking Washington. It’s time to tell the world it’s fucked-up. We’re going to change it, man.”

His altruistic aims stood in contrast to my immediate goals -- to test the limits of my high, and then make love to Jovian -- if that would be okay with Les.

Until I had met them, I had been firmly against pre-marital sex and had been saving myself for marriage.

For what? It’s all crap. I could get sent to Vietnam and die an asshole virgin, in some rice paddy.

“I want women to have the chance to be equal to men,” I said, thinking myself to be quite open-minded.

Jovian giggled. “Women who want to be equal to men lack ambition.”

We all nodded sagely.

“Right on,” Les said. He picked up a bit of beadwork Jovian had been doing and started to work on it. The sight of him acting that feminine unnerved me. But on the other hand, it appeared quite natural.

I thought about where I would have been and what I would be doing, if I had gone out for breakfast, with my roommate. All of a sudden, my life seemed meaningless.

Les and Jovian have things figured out. They have their shit together, while my life is “fucked up.”

“Don’t you think Celestial is pretty?” Jovian asked.

I giggled. “Men aren’t pretty. Men are handsome.”

“Celestial is beautiful,” Jovian said and stood up. She put a Mama’s and the Papa’s LP on her hi-fi.

We passed the bong and listened to their four-part harmony on the album You Can’t Believe Your Eyes and Ears, a sound like no other.

Jovian swayed to the music and softly sang along.

I need no more convincing. Life, as I have been living it, is a bummer.

The only time either of them criticized me had been when I “Bogarted” a joint.

“You gotta go where you wanna go,” she sang, “Do what you wanna do.”

Her wanna’s echoed around the room in an erotic way leaving me hard. Her long dress did nothing to hide her distinctly feminine figure.

I’ve heard that some hippie girls don’t even wear underwear. She isn’t wearing a bra.

Jovian turned off the hi-fi and knelt before Celestial, with his face in her hands. “Where do you wanna go?” She spun toward me and took my hands in hers. “What do you wanna do?”

I didn’t have to think too long. “Graduate on time and get a good job.”

“Man,” Celestial said, ”you’re either on the bus or you’re off the bus. And, if you’re off the bus, you’ll get left behind.”

Jovian nodded and gave her body to the beat of some unnamed song that had to be running through her head. “That’s so sad, Greg. There’s time though. You’ll figure it out.”

My hard-on faded. I wanted so badly to understand what to say and how to be like them.

“What do you wanna do?” Jovian asked of Celestial.

His face turned red. As “laid back” as he came across, it seemed unlikely that his thoughts could embarrass him. He took a deep hit on the bong and then held the smoke much longer than I thought he should have.

After he exhaled, he pulled his legs under himself as Jovian had. “Do you really want to know, man? Because if I tell you what I really, really want, it will blow your fucking mind.”

We nodded, encouraging him to tell us.

“It’ll blow your mind,” he said again. “I promise you it’s an outta-sight mind-fuck.”

I looked to Jovian, whose face reflected the love I could tell Celestial had for her.

Even though they both believed in free love, I felt less and less sure Celestial would be okay, with me making love to Jovian.

Jovian stood behind Celestial and rubbed his temples. “Tell us Celestial. What do you wanna do?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s really out there, man.” He picked up his bongo set and pounded out a haunting meter.

“Get on the bus, Celestial. You’re starting to bring me down.” Jovian came around in front of Celestial and kissed him on the lips. “There’s nothing you wanna do that’s going to be a bad trip for me. It’s all okay. Don’t start getting all uptight on me.”

Despite myself -- I hoped that what he wanted to do was -- to go into the bedroom and share Jovian with me.

He opened his mouth. For a few seconds, nothing came out, as if his tongue had numbed. “I want to be beautiful,” he finally said -- quietly. “I want to be pretty.”

“You are already,” Celestial reminded him.

We had just been over that. Maybe he’s burnt?

“No,” he said, looking quite sad. “I really want to be pretty. Like you.” A tear ran down his cheek.

“You’re the most beautiful man I know,” Jovian said.

I nodded. He does look pretty — in a way.

“But,” he whispered, “I don’t want to be a beautiful man.”

Jovian laughed. “Are you tripping? ‘I wanna be beautiful. I don’t wanna be beautiful.’ What’s your thing, man?”

Jovian and I both stared at him.

Tears poured from his eyes as he struggled to find words. He shook his head and bit his lip. “It’s this crazy dream, man,” he said. “Ever since I was four, I’ve had this fucked-up dream.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “We all have aspirations. It’s okay to dream about becoming someone rich and powerful.”

He stood and paced the room. “Not rich and powerful. Fuck.” His face twisted in anguish. “Oh shit! I want to beautiful, man. I want to be a pretty, beautiful girl.”

I gasped.

Jovian giggled, but it sounded hollow. “What do you mean, Les?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But every night I go to bed and dream that somehow I became a girl and it makes me happy. . .then I wake up.”

“You said,” I whined, feeling bummed out, “you said you’re not a homosexual.”

“He’s not,” Jovian stated. “He’s my fulltime lover.” Her hands rubbed his shoulders, which I noted weren’t as big or broad -- as they should be.

“I’m not into guys,” I said, setting boundaries that I wouldn’t violate -- no matter what.

“That’s not it,” Les said. “Even my name -- ‘Celestial’ -- is secretly a form of ‘Celeste.’ I named myself after my favorite movie star, Celeste Holm. Remember her from All About Eve.”

I nodded and tried to see anything about Les that reminded me of her, which I didn’t. “Maybe you could be a Hare Krishna? They wear dresses, sort of.”

“No,” Les replied. “It’s more than the clothes. I can’t figure it all out, man.”

Jovian had stopped swaying. “Are you for real?”

Les nodded.

“Do you want me to call you ‘Celeste?’” Jovian asked in a timid tone that indicated she didn’t really want to hear the answer.

Les nodded, and then hung his head in misery.

“I. . .I can do that,” Jovian stated quietly, and then signaled to me with her hand, to join her in bringing Celeste back into his groove.

“Uh-huh,” I agreed. “If you want to be called ‘Celeste’ I’m all for it.” My mind reeled. “Do you suppose it’s the marijuana? Have you smoked so much it’s changing you into a girl?”

Les closed his eyes -- possibly to think.

Jovian shook her head. “I love being a girl. Being a girl is a rush. Oh wow! I don’t want to change to be a boy -- and I smoke more dope than Celeste.”

Celeste? In a way, it sounded less affected than “Celestial” and seemed to fit him more than “Les.”

“It’s not the wacky tobaccy,” Celeste said. “I wasn’t smoking dope in the third grade when I snuck into my sister’s room and tried on her dress.”

“Big deal,” I argued. “One Halloween, my sister dressed me up as a witch. But Mom made her take it off me, before I went out in public.”

“It wasn’t just one time,” Celeste admitted. “I dressed in my sister’s clothes every chance I got.”

“You did?” Jovian asked. “Do you like boys? Do you make love to boys when I’m not around? Did you bring Greg here to make love to him?” Although she certainly had the right to ask, her questions seemed to be surprisingly loaded with animosity.

“No,” he answered quietly. “I’ve thought about things like that. But I don’t think I’m into boys. I’m definitely into you.”

Jovian’s face registered immense relief. “That’s good, good, good.”

Les turned to me. “No offense, Greg.”

“None taken,” I replied, pleased he cared.

He smiled and passed me the bong. “Take another hit of Mexican Mary Jane. I scored a dime bag. It’s righteous weed.”

“You are pretty,” I said to Celeste after inhaling another toke of bliss. “With your long hair and soft features, you are pretty.” It felt weird saying it, but I owed it to him for sharing his stash -- and he did look sort of lovely.

“No.” Celeste dissolved into tears as he sank to the floor. He didn't cry like any man I had ever seen -- more like a miserable woman, who couldn’t imagine a future for herself.

Jovian knelt next to him and pulled him into a hug. She held him and cooed. “Celeste, it will be okay. You can’t flow against your Karma. We’ll find a way to make it okay.”

I felt completely useless. Jovian looked sexier than ever holding him. I wanted to show her how resourceful I could be. I wanted her to know how good I could be, at solving problems.

I studied the two of them intently -- opening my mind to all the possibilities. The similarities between the two of them couldn’t be denied. In fact, Celeste’s hair was actually longer than Jovian’s, although greasy and matted.

Neither of them could weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds. They probably drank Tab and used Sweet-N-Low, in their coffee. They appeared to be about the same size.

Uh-huh! They are about the same size. “Jovian, why don’t you make Celeste pretty?”

They both looked at me with big, puppy-eyes. They wanted someone to help them.

I have the power to be that person.

“Unless I’m hallucinating,” I said, “you two appear to be about twins, in the way you’re built. Of course, Celeste needs to grow a couple of. . ..” I indicated breasts by cupping my hands where my breasts would be, if I had some.

Jovian eyed Celeste. “I see what you mean.”

“Your dresses fit me,” Celeste said, his face turning bright red.

“Oh,” Jovian exclaimed, “I wondered why. . ..”

Celeste turned to me. “Do you want to be a woman, too?”

I laughed, but the idea of being with two women as fine as those two intrigued me.

“Do your own thing,” Jovian declared with virtuous anger. “The establishment tries to control people, by arbitrarily deciding who should wear what. That’s bogus.” She stared intently at Celeste. “Let’s take a shower. I want to work with your hair. We need to clean a little fuzz off your face, arms, and legs.”

They went into the bathroom. For the next thirty minutes, I could hear almost constant giggling that made me even hornier.

I turned on the hi-fi receiver and listened to the radio, to take my mind off what had happened, but every song was a reminder. The disc jockey play Johnny Cash's Boy Named Sue, Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild, the Rascal's People Got to be Free, John Fred's Judy in Disguise, and Marvin Gaye's Ain't Nothing Like the Real Thing.

When they came out, a shy and nervous Celeste looked strangely appealing in a long granny dress. Her shy awkwardness faded quickly, after I rose and gave her a hug.

Hugs hadn’t been my thing, before meeting Celeste. But they had quickly become natural.

“Your feet are too big for my shoes,” Jovian said apologetically, “but I normally go barefoot. We’ll paint your toes and you’ll be just perfect.” She then spent a long time making Celeste’s fingernails and toenails pink, during which we did another number.

“Out of sight! It’s a good thing you still had a few bras,” Celeste giggled at one point, “or we would have had no place for my boobs.” Celeste had stuffed the bra with something to create a figure that closely matched Jovian’s.

“You look groovy, in my threads,” Jovian said. “Next week, we should make you something adorable of your own. We can tie-dye a dress, for you.”

“Power to the people,” Celeste's chest moved, in that way that made me think of great sex.

“I didn’t think hippies used make-up,” I offered, as Jovian sat Celeste in front of her and brightened her face with a variety of cosmetics.

“Far out,” she said. “That’s what we like people to think.”

When Jovian finished, it became hard for me to remember Celeste had really been Les. She looked nifty, like a real flower child.

Jovian lit incense and rubbed a pleasing, vanilla lotion into Celeste. Celeste’s hair dried enough for Jovian to brush it, and then weaved a few strands into a small braid that circled the top of Celeste’s head.

Then Jovian wove flowers into that braid. The rest of Celeste’s hair hung straight down, so that she looked a bit like a honey-blonde Janis Joplin.

“I’m so fucking stoned,” I moaned, feeling turned-on.

“Celeste,” Jovian said with an evil grin, “let’s show Greg what we do to men who get wasted in our pad.”

The two of them jumped on my body and tickled me all over. I melted into a helpless puddle. Jovian eased off first, leaving Celeste to keep up the torture.

After she quit, I found myself lying under her on the floor with her crimson mouth inches away from mine.

It was perfectly natural when we kissed.

It felt even more natural when Jovian sat next to me on the floor and took a turn kissing my lips.

“Mmmmm,” I said, after we all came up for air, “You both are so beautiful I can hardly stand it.” At that moment, I would have gladly taken the two of them into their bedroom, but Jovian had other ideas.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she suggested.

Celeste took a sharp breath. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Jovian asked. “Are you worried about the ‘man’ all of sudden?”

I had become a spectator, as they challenged each other to new heights. The idea of walking across campus, with those two, felt oddly exciting. “Let’s do it,” I said. “You’re both too lovely, to hide from the world. You should show everyone what being pretty is all about.”

Celeste smiled and then she took my face in her hands and kissed me deeply. Our tongues met. “When we get back, I want to see if I like boys.”

“I think you do,” Jovian said, as she giggled. “I think I like the idea of you liking boys. If your boyfriends all are as nice as Greg, we can share. That would be beautiful.”

My mind raced as I tried to think of ways to make them forget about the stroll across campus, in favor of a short leap, into their sack.

Jovian added another set of love-beads around Celeste’s neck. “Let’s go before one of us gets all chickened out.”

Celeste shot Jovian a look that said neither of them would ever back down.

As amazing as the two of them had looked in their apartment, they looked a hundred times better in natural sunlight. They pranced more than they walked, dancing around trees and running across wide-open areas of grass holding hands.

Happiness soared from their heads in shades of pastel blues and pinks. Watching them made me wonder if I was looking at a preview of heaven. I calculated the eternity it would take, to get them back to the apartment and into my arms.

“Hey, look at the hippie chicks.”

I recognized the voice breaking into my perfect world as Stuart from my fraternity. He was the one guy in our house who couldn’t wait to “kill a few gooks.”

“If they didn’t smell so bad, I’d love to fuck me a hippie chick.”

I turned and saw Stuart walking with Pockets, who had become infamous for drinking from a gallon jug at keggers. They both had dressed in their ROTC parade uniforms and spit-shined boots, which meant they were going over to the stadium, for extra credit marching.

I didn’t particularly like either of them. They embarrassed everyone during Hell Week when they paddled the pledges and made up obscene things, for them to do. Most of the time during Hell Week -- I stayed in my room.

Jovian and Celeste turned to find me. They stood about a hundred feet away.

Stuart and Pockets had stopped, about halfway between us. My marijuana high picked that moment to wear off. I had lost my buzz. I stepped behind a tree.

“What the fuck!” Stuart shouted. He pointed at Celeste, who had one hand on her hip and the other held up toward him -- flipping him the peace sign. “That’s no fucking broad. She’s a guy.”

Pockets moved warily toward Celeste, as if she might be contagious. If I ran quickly, I could’ve cut them off. I wasn’t a physical match for either of them, but I most likely could’ve gotten them to back off.

Instead, I froze.

“He’s a god-damned fairy,” Stuart screamed. “I hate fucking faggots.”

“Are you a peace-loving, hippie faggot?” Pockets shouted. “You misfits are dangerous to our world. I oughta fuck you up good.”

“Leave Celeste alone,” Jovian yelled. Both Jovian and Celeste looked toward me with those same puppy-eyes I’d seen, no more than three hours earlier.

This time I solved the problem. . .by moving further behind my tree.

Perhaps Stuart and Pockets have a point? What had I been thinking?

Stuart shoved Jovian aside. Pockets took a menacing step toward Celeste.

“Hey man,” Celeste said, “we aren’t looking for any trouble. Be cool.”

I wanted to intercede. But I knew if I came forward, both Stuart and Pockets would know immediately what I had been planning to do with Celeste. That would mean the end of me.

Pockets advanced again toward Celeste.

She reacted by retreating.

The hem of her granny dress hooked on her bare heel, pulling her over backward.

She reached back to catch herself -- but her head struck the marble base of a Korean War monument with the sickening sound of a dropped watermelon.

She died before she hit the ground.

The pigs called it “an unfortunate accident.”

The college gave Pockets and Stuart enough credits to graduate early -- to get them off campus. The Army immediately commissioned them as first lieutenants. Neither one of them came back from alive Vietnam.

My guess is they both were fragged.

The hippies didn’t even protest the circumstances of Lester’s death. They seemed embarrassed, by how he had been dressed.

Jovian dropped out of college.

I never saw her again.

Someone said she joined a commune in Oregon. When the yearbook came out, I found out her real name had been ‘Jennifer.’

I never came out from behind my tree. More often than not, I dream about that day and what happened and what might have happened. . .and wake up screaming my regrets.

The End

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

If you buy a book from this list, you’re supporting this site.

Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

Freedomia -- land of the blessed. Fasten your seatbelts for landing.

Freedomia Rules
By Angela Rasch

Tires squealed and the plane lurched slightly as we touched down on the tarmac, in the sweltering heat, of southern hemisphere summer.

I would enjoy the opportunity, to work on a tan, given the sub-zero temperature I had left behind, in Chicago. I already regretted wearing a wool suit. Even though I had bought it at Macy’s, the jacket seemed a bit mannish and clashed with a skirt that allowed my knees to peek out.

Of course, as a pre-op transsexual, I too could be termed a bit mannish.

“This story is perfect for you,” my editor had said with a malicious grin. He hadn’t been happy when the paper’s human resources people hired me, without his consent. Outside of a corporate attorney and the V.P. of human resources, my editor was the only person, at my new job, to know of my transitioning.

I had moved four hundred miles and created a new career, to put my past behind me. “Your perspective on certain issues will bring verve and tension, to a story about Freedomia.”

Jerk!

I looked around the cabin, of the airplane, at my fellow travelers.

Many had opened their in-flight Bibles, once we lifted off, on the final leg of my journey. For the next four hours, they kept their eyes glued to the Scriptures. Other than a certain holier-than-thou attitude that might have been just something I was imagining, they seemed to be an average group of people.

“To Hell with the United Nations” blared a headline on the local newspaper at, the first kiosk after our gate. I hadn’t read the story -- but imagined it would be a screed regarding the United Nations’ decision to level sanctions against Freedomia, for civil rights violations.

“Where to, Honey?” the taxi driver asked, with too much familiarity.

To avoid a bias, in my article, I’d skipped the background research I’d normally do. I intended to do that after my trip, once I’d formed an unvarnished impression. I knew that Freedomia’s laws were based on religious beliefs. Nonetheless, his obvious sexist attitude left me momentarily speechless. “Take me to the Bennington, please.”

“Are you meeting your husband -- there?” He asked, in an obvious probe about my marital status. From what I had been able to gather, through minimal reading about this new country, the males in Freedomia out-numbered the females by nearly twelve to one. The divorce rate between couples when the male decided to move to Freedomia, from the United States, had been nearly eighty-five percent.

“I’m traveling alone,” I replied, keeping information about my single life as quiet as my ringless fingers.

“I take people to the Bennington every day,” he said. “Most are new to our grand country and are looking to buy a home. They stay in the Bennington only as long as it takes, for them to close, on a house. I can help make that happen for you, within twenty days.”

He turned, reached over the seatback between us, and handed me a brochure, for a real estate firm. “They’re a good outfit. Someone told me they’re selling nearly a hundred homes a day. Praise the Lord, there’s a lot of people, who want to live in Freedomia.”

I involuntarily squeezed my knees together. The secret between my legs could land me in jail, or worse. I had never experienced any difficulty passing for a woman. Not once in the last five years, since I had been living as a woman fulltime, had anyone given even the slightest indication of suspecting anything.

But Freedomia had achieved a reputation for its anti-trans laws.

My editor hadn’t given me a real choice. He said I could take the assignment, or he would demote me, to copy editor.

I loved writing for the paper and the freedom, to report, on issues I felt were important. I wasn’t about to let one jackass, in his ivory tower, ruin that for me.

As we drove from the airport, to my hotel, I was struck by how much similarity there was between Freedomia and the United States. More than enough McDonald’s, Domino’s Pizzas, and other franchises “graced” their streets.

My eyes stumbled when they saw a sign, for a store called 21:7. “Don’t they mean 24/7?” I asked.

“I don’t understand,” my driver answered, clearly baffled, by my question.

"Shouldn’t the sign on the store say 24/7? You know. They’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

He gasped. “Are you crazy?”

I looked at his license, displayed on the dash where a radio would have been, in most cars. “Paul,” I said, hoping I could start to gather information for my article, by getting him to talk. “My doctor tells me my mental health is just fine.”

He didn’t laugh. “No one in Freedomia would be stupid enough, to work on the Sabbath. We honor Exodus 35:2. I, myself have had the distinct pleasure of taking part in a public stoning, to execute a sinner, who violated the Sabbath. He claimed he forgot what day it was. Can you imagine?”

I shuddered. It was one thing to have heard a little about the laws, in this new form of government based on Holy Scripture -- but quite another experience, to have someone talk so eerily about lethally throwing rocks at another human -- meting out punishment, for working on Sunday.

“That store you asked about,” he said as he slowed for a red light. “The one with the 21:7 sign -- is where you go to purchase someone’s daughter. You’re a Believer, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” I had been prepared for that question. My faith was strong, but not to the degree of fanaticism I expected to encounter.

“Then I will remind you of Exodus 21:7, which provides the right, to sell your daughter, into slavery.”

I stifled a yip of protest. My marriage had not produced any children and since we had been divorced for five years, probably never would. If I would have had a daughter, I couldn’t imagine what on earth could ever possess me . . . to sell her!

I thought of my older sister and the childhood grief she often had given me. Maybe selling her, for a weekend or two, would have been okay. My smile quickly diminished when I grasped how horribly real the prospect of being sold was, in this strange land.

We had entered the downtown area. I was struck by the number of women on the street dressed in bright red. “Why all the red dresses? Is it a special holiday?”

The driver laughed in that superior way I hoped I had never used. “Those women are all being visited by Aunt Flo. Leviticus 15:19-24 demands that we not touch a woman, in her period of menstrual uncleanliness. Women here must let the men know by wearing red. Look — if it’s your time of the month, I can take you to a store, so you can buy suitable clothing.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, trying not to sound too indignant.

As we continued toward the motel, the driver spoke of upcoming sporting events and the weather. For that brief period, everything seemed normal.

Stepping from the cab, a sharp odor caused me to blink. “Ewww. What’s that smell?”

“Someone is sacrificing a bull, on their home altar. Around the holidays, we actually get smog from all the bull-burnings. I usually travel to the outlands, to fulfill my Leviticus 1:9 duties. But too many -- simply don’t care.”

I checked in, without further problem. After a four-hour nap, I woke famished and went down, to a restaurant, on the second floor.

A young man who introduced himself as “Curt” provided a menu. He wore a silver, solid ring on his left wrist that he couldn’t possibly take off.

I was amazed at his commitment to fashion. “That’s a lovely bracelet.”

His look of disgust nearly bowled me over. But he said nothing.

“I’m from the U.S.,” I said hurriedly. “I just came to your country today and will be here the next five days, on assignment, for my newspaper. I don’t know all your customs, yet. If I’ve said something, to upset you, please tell me.”

A single tear trickled down his left cheek. “Slavery, ma’am,” he whispered, through clenched teeth. “I’m a slave.”

“Slavery?”

“These fools use a Bible passage, Leviticus 25:44, to support their slavery laws. I’m from West Alma. Slavers crossed the border, from Freedomia, into my homeland -- and captured me.”

I drew in a sharp breath and glanced around, to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “The United Nations has an interest in your plight. Things may change soon.”

“Thank you,” he gushed. “It means a great deal to have some hope.”

I smiled. “I don’t really need to look at the menu. All day I’ve been craving lobster.”

He looked at me with shock. “You could be stoned to death, for eating lobster. No restaurant here would ever serve shellfish. The Bible says it’s an abomination. Leviticus 11:10.”

I shook my head and opened my menu, feeling the relief one gets when the brakes work properly. “I’ll have the petite sirloin steak.”

“Good choice.” His grin told me he was pleased, to have saved my life.

“Could I ask you a question,” I asked, again looking around, to assure our privacy.

He nodded.

“You have short hair. Is there another one of those strange laws, about hair? Almost every man I’ve seen has long hair and a full beard.”

“Leviticus 19:27 — because I’m a slave they don’t care if I have long hair or not. But all the male true believers are subject to stoning, if they cut their hair -- or shave their face.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me a pamphlet titled, “Things You Need to Know.”

As I waited for my meal I found that touching the skin of a pig was also a capital offense (Leviticus 11:8), as was approaching the altar of the Lord, if my eyesight was less than perfect (Leviticus 21:20).

The pamphlet told of a farmer who had planted two different crops, in the same field -- and had worn a garment made of both cotton and polyester. His whole town had turned out, to stone him, to death.

I thought of my soon-to-be husband back in Chicago and how I was twice an abomination in the Freedomians’ book.

I beckoned to Curt. When he arrived at my table, I gave him a one-hundred-dollar bill, to cover the meal and his tip. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” I explained, as I rose to leave.

Once back in my room, I hurriedly packed and went to the airport. I would catch the first plane home, to the relative sanity of a world whose inhabitants pick and choose their foolish bias and laws, with a slight bit more discrimination.

The End

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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
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Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
Molly
Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Uncivil
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Basketball Is Life
Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
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Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake