Daniel Davis has no clue as to what kind of person he really is and all he knows is that he's inexplicably miserable despite having a loving wife, wonderful young daughter, and a good job. But all that begins to change when a psychologist gives him an explanation for the huge gaps in his memory.
Drew Miller
Daniel Davis has no clue as to what kind of person he really is and all he knows is that he's inexplicably miserable despite having a loving wife, wonderful young daughter, and a good job. But all that begins to change when a psychologist gives him an explanation for the huge gaps in his memory.
Chapter 1
“How would I describe my life now? That’s a good question. If it were a drink, just like water it’d be tasteless and unremarkable. If it were a smell, it would be a smell like the stale air-conditioned air that blows out of the vent of my car. And if it were a sound, it would be…it would be…I guess it would be like the static sound from a useless old television set, you know, that reassuring sound that fills a room when you’re dozing off, the kind that you can easily tune out, just like me. I’m easily tuned out and my life is stale. I’m just sort of there all the time, just breathing stale air and taking up space, like a zombie. Actually, I think a zombie would feel more than me at this point.”
“Hmmm,” mused my psychologist, brushing a few strands of long sandy blonde hair away from her eyes. “You do seem a bit…sedated.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I said.
“Are you currently taking any medications Mr. Davis…prescribed or otherwise?”
I shook my head. But there was no need to brush any strands of beautiful silky hair away from my forehead. My full head of dark hair was close cropped as usual.
“Well,” began my therapist, “You told me how your life is, how numb and detached you feel. But let me ask you this: how would you like your life to be?”
“I don’t know,” I began. “Just not like this. Just not the way things are. I just…I just…”
I could feel the tears stinging my eyes and I had no choice but to succumb to the wave of sadness welling up from deep within some dark and hidden place.
“Oh God!” I exclaimed before I started weeping. “I just want to die. I feel so miserable all of the time that I just want to die. And the worst part is all of the pretending. You know, having to pretend to my wife and our child and my coworkers and all of my friends that I’m fine, that I’m happy with my life and everything I’ve accomplished. I should be. I know I should be. I’ve been blessed with quite a lot in my life, which makes me feel guilty about feeling the way I do…all the time. I mean, why am I not happy? I should be, right? I just don’t know anymore. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“First of all,” said my therapist, “There’s nothing wrong with you. Clearly, there’s something buried within you…possibly from the past that’s interfering with your ability to appreciate and enjoy the present. Now, let me ask you something, when was the last time you remember being happy…or at the very least, content a good deal of the time.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I dunno. It seems like I’ve been feeling this way for a very long time…so long that I can’t remember what it was like to ever feel happy.”
“Just try. Think back to your childhood and focus. You must have some happy memories from then.”
“Ummm…I don’t know…I really can’t remember that far back.”
“Are you sure about that? Do you remember anything from middle school?”
I furrowed my brow and concentrated, but then shook my head when, once more, I drew a complete blank.
“What about High School? Surely you must have some memories from such relatively recent events.”
“Not really. I remember a fragment here and there, but not much else. It’s probably for the best anyway. I was a loner. That much I do remember.”
“Why were you a loner?” wondered my therapist.
I sighed before saying, “Dunno. I’ve always been a bit on the shy side. I guess I just felt that I never fit in…with anyone. That’s my life story. There’s something about me that’s just…well just different. I knew it then and I know it now and I just can’t seem to shake it, this sense of wrongness that I feel with every fiber of my being.”
“Please tell me more about this sense of wrongness. Can you be more specific?”
“It’s hard to explain. I know it sounds crazy, but all of my life, the parts I remember I mean, it almost feels like I’ve been living someone else’s life, like I’m always looking at the world through someone else’s eyes.” After dabbing some remnant wetness from my face with some tissues sitting on the table next to my plush chair, I met the inquisitive eyes of my therapist with dry and weary ones of my own. “So what’s the prognosis? Have I completely lost it? Am I going insane?”
“First of all, insane is a legal term and has no place in this room. Secondly, there’s nothing abnormal about you. You’re certainly not the first nor will you be the last person who I’ve seen in this office with repressed memories.”
“You think they’re repressed? Are you sure I haven’t just forgotten most of my life?”
“I’m pretty sure. That sort of thing doesn’t just happen, unless a person has suffered some kind of brain trauma or suffers from organic brain disease. And since, according to your medical records, you’re suffering from neither, I can assert with a good deal of confidence that you’re repressing a good deal of your long term memory?”
“Why?”
“It’s the brain’s defense mechanism, a way to protect itself from emotional and physical trauma.”
“But I don’t remember ever suffering any kind of trauma or abuse?”
“Exactly,” asserted my therapist.
“So here’s the million dollar question: how do I remember something I can’t remember? Where do I even start?”
“You can start by going back to familiar places from your youth.”
“A lot has changed since then. A lot of the familiar is unfamiliar now.”
“Before our next session, find something, anything, a person, place or thing to trigger a memory from your childhood. Any memory will do. We just need a place to start. After the first memory, there will be many more. Trust me. I’ve been doing this for a very long time?”
“And If I come back next week with nothing? Then what?”
“Trust me,” assured my therapist with a calm smile. “Like I said, I’ve been doing this for quite some time now.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
“Our time’s up. Would you like to schedule another session at the same day and time two weeks from now?”
“Sure,” I quietly assented. “It’s the only time I can do. My wife still thinks I play racquetball with one of the guys after work every Friday. I guess a little white lie is no big deal. I’m doing this for her…for the kids.”
Showing me down the hall, she said, “See you next Friday Mr. Davis.”
“Yeah, thanks Ms. Meisner. I’ll see you then.”
It was late evening the following Thursday as I turned onto the street of my childhood home, and inexplicably, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And I wondered if it had something to do with fear. And I was afraid. I was afraid of finding something in my old house which I wasn’t even searching for.
I slowed the rental car I was driving to a crawl when I was a couple of blocks away. But the slower I went, the faster my heart beat, until it was pounding in my chest when I parked along the curb across the street from my parents’ modest home.
I got out of my car and leaned against the door in the chilly air of early spring. Just as expected, the downstairs windows were lit and the porch light on. I pulled my jacket closer to my body as I traversed the short distance across the street and over the stepping stones of the front yard which led to the small wooden porch.
My finger hesitated over the doorbell while I mulled things over in my mind.
What are you doing showing up at your mom’s house this time of the evening? This is stupid. Just hop the next flight back and forget the whole thing. Just go back and call the therapist and tell her it didn’t work and cancel your next appointment.
But another part of me was quietly imploring to go through with it. But it was different than the voice in my head just over a week ago before I made my first appointment, the voice which kept telling me to pull the trigger of the loaded gun I had pressed against my temple. No, this voice was calm and soothing, like that of my therapist. In fact, strangely enough, it sounded feminine like my therapist’s voice.
The calm and soothing voice won out.
Ding dong!
The door opened to the sight of a woman with short graying hair.
“Daniel?” she said, with searching eyes.
“Hi mom,” I said sheepishly.
“You’re the last person I expected to show up on my doorstep this evening. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong mom. I just wanted to surprise you. I was in the area on business and we put to bed a project faster than expected. So, I just figured I’d swing by before my flight leaves.”
“Daniel,” she began. “Are you sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah mom. Never better.”
She invited me in after giving me a hug and a kiss.
Then she said, “Sorry, but I don’t have much in the way of food to offer you. I just finished the leftovers, but there’s some ice cream in the fridge if you want some.”
“Thanks, but I already ate.”
“Then why don’t you have a seat so we can catch up.”
“Sure,” I said, taking a seat in the recliner next to my mother.
“So, how’s Michelle and little Katie?” wondered my mom while rocking in her easy chair.
“Katie isn’t so little anymore. She starts first grade this fall. And Michelle…well, Michelle is Michelle, always on the move, always staying busy. Sometimes it’s just exhausting trying to keep up with her.”
“I’ve always wondered if and when she sleeps,” teased my mother.
“I don’t know what I’d do without her…and Katie. Without them, I’m not even sure if I’d be able to drag myself out of bed.”
My mother smiled and then said, “Now I’ve got this little guy to get me up in the morning.”
She clicked her tongue a couple of times, calling an orange tabby cat onto her lap. She stroked its fur and it began to purr.
“There’s nothing like family,” she said.
I smiled a warm smile of my own. “And speaking of family,” I said, “I was wondering if you still had all of the genealogical documents and stuff somewhere.”
“Of course. Since when have I ever been able to throw anything out? But why the sudden interest?”
“I guess I’m getting sentimental in my old age,” I joked.
“And if you’re old, what does that make me?” she teased.
“A wonderful and caring mother, as always” I said.
“And the neighborhood cat lady,” she said.
She continued stroking her tabby cat’s head.
“So,” I began, “Where are you keeping all of the documents?”
She yawned before saying, “In the attic. I’d move them, but there just isn’t enough room in the spare bedroom. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“I’ll know it when I see it,” I said. Rising to my feet and stretching, I said, “I’ll go ahead and head up there now and have a quick look.”
“I’m going to put the kettle on in a while. Would you like some tea?”
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
“Still drinking the chai spice?”
“Ahhh,” I said. “You know me all too well.”
But heading up the stairs, I started frowning, for I had told another white lie, and I’m not talking about becoming sentimental in my old age. No. It was when I commented that my mother knew me very well. At that moment, I felt she didn’t know me, and I felt I didn’t even know myself.
When I got to the landing, I pulled the cord and then slid the steps down. I slowly climbed up, flashlight in hand and waded into a familiar musty smell, a smell that triggered a wave of anxiety. But when I turned on the light, my anxiety didn’t ease; instead, it damn near turned into a panic attack. I retreated to a corner, knelt down, and caught my breath, all the while fighting back tears.
I looked around, inventorying everything, but I had no more idea why I was so upset than I had knowledge of what was inside all of the boxes. But curiously enough, none of the rows of stacked boxes interested me in the slightest. What did interest me was an old carved chest in the far corner, partially concealed by the shadows.
I walked over and knelt down in front of it. I slowly opened it, revealing assorted memorabilia mixed together with some worthless old yellowed dime novels. But it wasn’t the memorabilia that triggered a memory. The pungent scent of dusty old wood and books along with a subtle undercurrent of cedar and lavender took me beyond that vague feeling of panic and fear. The smell took me right back to when I was six or seven.
In my mind’s eye, I saw myself standing in front of a mirror in the attic, but it didn’t look like me. It looked like my sister gazing back at me. But it had to be me. Her hair was never that short. Then I just stopped questioning everything, and gave into the happiness and contentment I was feeling while preening in front of the mirror in my sister’s old Easter dress.
In the memory of the moment, I had never been so elated. I had never felt so free. And things had never felt so right. And seeing a pretty little girl staring back at me felt so right.
Now, in the present, I found myself crying because I felt so happy. But tears of joy were soon replaced with tears of sorrow because the memory just kept playing on like an old movie. There was no remote control to press pause.
The young me heard footsteps coming up the ladder and my heart raced. I fumbled for the zipper of my cute little dress with shaky hands to do the quickest change of my life, but wouldn’t you know it, it was stuck! I darted into the corner and hid in the shadows behind some boxes, hoping against hope that I’d remain concealed. And as if my heart wasn’t racing fast enough and my palms weren’t sweaty enough, my father’s baritone voice elevated my panic level another notch.
Daniel! Daniel? I know you’re up here son. It’s time for dinner…Daniel, did you hear me? I said dinner, now!
But I was too petrified to speak.
Godamnit Daniel! I’m in no mood to play games this evening. You’ve got until the count of three to come on over here, otherwise I’m climbing all the way up…One….two…three! Alright. Fine. If you want to do it the hard way, we’ll do it the hard way. Daniel, why are you hiding behind that box?
Please just give me another minute daddy. I promise I’ll be right down. I promise.
I’ve heard that before. Then one minute turns into ten minutes and the dinner your mother went to all that trouble to cook gets cold.
He stomped on over in his black work boots and grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the shadows.
I swear to God son, you are without a doubt, the most…
His voice trailed off and his mouth gaped open when he saw my sister’s new twin.
Daniel, why the hell are you wearing your sister’s dress?
I don’t know. I just felt like being pretty I guess.
Daniel, boys don’t wear dresses and they certainly don’t get to be pretty.
But I don’t feel like a boy daddy.
Well that’s what you are.
No it’s not. I feel like a girl.
Godamnit Daniel! I told you, you’re a boy, not a girl!
But I am a girl! I cried.
We’ll just see about that!
My father yanked the zipper down and practically tore the dress off of my body. After tossing it in the corner, he dragged me over to the mirror.
Jesus Daniel! You’re wearing her pink panties too? Take ‘em off!
No! I said defiantly.
However, my dad raised his hand and my defiance was short lived.
Boy, if you know what’s good for ya, you’ll take those ridiculous looking things off now.
Whimpering in my greatest indignity, I slowly slid them down, but the whole while I hid the ugly mistake between my legs with the palm of my left hand. But my dad gripped my hand and moved it away, leading me to wince and turn my head at the sight of such an ugly truth.
Take a look in the mirror, he ordered. Do you still see a little girl? Don't you dare turn away. I said look at yourself Daniel! Take a good look at how God made you.
I cringed as the wrong body came into full view, and I couldn’t stop the tears from coursing their way down my face.
Good. Now, you see that? said my father, pointing to my crotch. It’s your penis Daniel. Girls don’t have them, only boys do. So, you still think you’re a girl?
I…I…
I couldn’t finish another word, for I started sobbing just like a little girl, further proof that my father chose to ignore at that moment.
My father, realizing he had sufficiently and brutally driven his point home, released me from his grip and began heading for the stairs, but the bastard looked back over his shoulder to address me one last time.
Now get your clothes on…you know the ones I mean. And make sure you wash up before coming down for supper. And Daniel, don’t tell your mother about what you did. You’ll just make her upset. You hear me? This stays between us.
Now in the place of the little boy sobbing in front of the mirror, I was literally curled up into a ball on the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. And at that moment, I was glad my mother’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be.
When I finally cried myself out and regained my composure, I walked over to the ancient mirror and studied myself. As I did, I wondered if deep down I had buried within me a frightened little girl.
Although I felt confused and shocked, what I was sure about was that I was going to keep my appointment with my therapist. She and I had a lot of ground to cover.
To Be Continued...
A good paying job? Check. A loving wife and little girl? Yes. And a beautiful home? You betcha. Yes, the current criteria defining success in America certainly applies to Daniel Davis. But is he happy? Most definitely not; in fact, he's miserable because he has everything he never wanted. All he wants is one thing: to stop living a lie by freeing the woman inside. But will he have the courage?
Chapter 2
The red-eye flight back home was certainly living up to its name. My eyes were shot from all of the crying, from all of the stress, and from all of the fatigue. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gotten a good night’s sleep. Now my cumulative sleep deficit refused to be ignored, just like my true feelings refused to stay buried. I started to nod off but my respite from myself was short lived.
“Sir? Sir?” asked the flight attendant. “Would you like a beverage?”
I wanted to say, “stop calling me sir!” But all I could manage was a “no thanks.”
It was going to be a long flight. I nodded off once more.
After the uneventful flight touched down, I bypassed the luggage carousel for the first time in a long time-well, come to think of it, the first time ever-and jogged on over to the parking lot.
Sitting in the car, something perplexed me. If I was in such a hurry, then why was I just sitting there and resting my hands on the steering wheel. And then again, why did I feel guilty, as if I had cheated on my wife. I mean, after all, I was just following my therapist’s advice.
I shook off the feeling and pulled out of the deserted parking garage. On the way home I kept trying to convince myself that my last minute excursion was no different than pulling an all-nighter at work. After all, weren’t my own personal problems as worth sorting through as unread emails at work?
I shook my head and forced my latest rationalization to the back of my mind so I could focus on the dusky road ahead.
With parking lights rendered increasingly feeble relative to the brightening twilight, I pulled up alongside the curb of my picturesque four bedroom house. I didn’t want to wake anyone up with blinding headlights.
I gingerly opened and closed the car door and when I got to the porch, I opened and closed the door just as carefully, but like an old screen door, it creaked ever so slightly. I felt like a teen-aged kid trying to sneak in after curfew! However, I reminded myself that I had nothing to feel guilty about. Yet the guilt persisted.
What happened next was like déjà vu. Like a scene from some clichéd movie on Lifetime, the living room overhead glowed to life like the high beams of my resting car. And to my astonishment, there was my wife just sitting there on the couch, arms crossed and expressionless like a white and sterile surgical room.
My heart raced and I broke out into a cold sweat. I don’t know what scared me more, the fact that she hadn’t even put on her nightgown, or the fact that she wasn’t saying a word. Her eyes smoldered like the remnant embers in the fireplace.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell me…dear?” she said, annunciating each word like she always did when she was quietly fuming.
“Ummm…” was my lame response. I was just too tired to think up a convenient lie.
“I know you weren’t pulling an all nighter…I talked to Bob earlier. So there’s no need to try and wrack your brain for another lie to tell me…So, who is she? Do I know her?”
“Actually, you do…I was at Mother’s…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you?”
“What?! Are you kidding me? Jesus! You mean you’d rather be with your mother than me.”
Rushing toward the couch to comfort her, I said, “Michelle, you know that’s not true.”
“I’m not so sure any more. And here I was, thinking four states away was far enough away, far enough to stop you from being so much of a mama’s boy. But I guess I was wrong. Jesus.”
She crossed her arms once more and averted her gaze, shooting a withering glare at the potted ficus in the corner of the room.
Sitting down next to her, I said, “Michelle, you know I love you and would do anything for you. Right?”
But all she did was to continue to stew in silent anger.
Continuing on as if I was talking to a wall, I said, “I didn’t go out to visit mom. I…I went there to confront some painful memories from the past that life has decided for some inexplicable reason to dredge up now.”
Slowly, she turned her head toward me. The expression on her face softened enough so that I reached over to grasp her hand.
Fighting back tears, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Michelle. I really am. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“But you did,” she said in a weary tone. “You know, I’m not angry that you hopped a flight to your mother’s. I’m upset because you lied to me. And that makes me wonder what else you’ve been lying about.”
“I haven’t been lying about anything else,” I lied.
“Are you sure? I mean, how many times have you said that you’re fine, or that everything’s okay, or that there’s nothing to worry about or…”
I could tell she was fighting back tears. Struggling to maintain her composure, she continued on.
“But I know you’re not fine, at least most of the time anyway. You say it and force a smile but I know you too well after all these years. I know you’re not happy anymore. Is it because of me? Is it because you don’t love me anymore?”
I grasped her hand while she cried. “Oh God no Michelle! How could I ever stop loving you? You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“Well it doesn’t feel like that lately. Sometimes I feel like I’m married to a stranger. I mean, you never even touch me anymore. I can’t even remember the last time we made love.”
“And I’m sorry. I need to do a better job and not take you for granted. You deserve better, so I’ll do better. I’ll be a better…man.”
“You promise?” she wondered, wiping away tears.
I crossed my heart with my finger before kissing her full lips. The sorrow drained from her face as she pressed her body closer to mine.
“Well,” she began, “That’s a start, but you still haven’t told me exactly why you went out to your mom’s in the first place.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Some memories are better left buried in the past where they belong. It’s time to start fully living in the present. And based on the beautiful and wonderful woman I see in front of me, the present looks pretty dammed good to me.”
I kissed her once more, only this time more passionately, the way I had always longed for someone to kiss me. Her arms seemed to float up of their own accord and wrap themselves around my shoulders in forgiveness. Getting her to forgive me was the easy part. I always instinctively knew how she wanted to be kissed and to be touched and that was the problem because I wanted to be kissed and touched like that. I could easily fulfill her needs but what about my needs? I sighed and wanted to shake my head at all of the irony. I always thought that if I found the right woman, I wouldn’t want to be, well you know, the girl I felt was trapped on the inside. I figured that being around a woman would fill the void that was in my life. But now, I was beginning to realize that the only woman who could possibly fill the void was the woman inside who was bursting at the seams to claw her way out. However, if I let her out, then what? What about our marriage? Michelle fell in love with a man and not a woman. And what about little Katie? What would happen to her if we divorced? Would I lose her once Michelle was granted full custody? I honestly didn’t know, and I really didn’t want to find out by indulging such a selfish desire. At that moment, the possibility of transitioning was off the table and I’d just have to continue being the man she married, and the father impressionable Katie so desperately needed during these confusing and trying times. All these questions and scenarios raced through my brain like the hot blood rushing through my passionate reawakened wife’s gorgeous body. But the only thought that was racing through my wife’s brain was, “are we going to make it upstairs or not?”
So, I did the only thing that I knew to do. I carried her upstairs to the bedroom, the way I had always fantasized a guy would do to me.
I laid her down and then kissed and caressed every square inch of her luscious soft skin before making love to her.
“Oh Daniel!” she exclaimed.
Close to orgasm and powerless to resist, I exclaimed, “Samantha!”
“What?!” she hissed.
“Sorry. I mean, could you call me Samantha just this one time? I’ve kinda always wanted to try it out sometime. It’s just a little harmless fantasy.”
With a devilish smile, she replied, “My, my. Aren’t we feeling a little kinky this evening…Samantha.”
I flashed her a toothy grin.
After making love, we laid next to each other, chests still heaving from such an explosion of passion. And there was passion to spare, for we gazed lovingly and hopefully into each other’s eyes like we did on our honeymoon all those years ago.
I said, “I hope I didn’t make you feel too uh…uncomfortable just now.”
Shaking her head, she replied, “Surprised…yes, a little. Uncomfortable…not so much. As long as you don’t start dressing the part, I think we'll be fine.”
Chuckling, I said, “Not to worry. I haven’t cross-dressed in years.”
The very brief yet awkward silence that ensued had me wondering if my wife actually thought it was a joke. And when her face finally lit up with a half-smile, I didn’t feel entirely reassured. Had she always suspected the real reason that I was different from other guys?
Easing the tension even further, she said, “Just promise me one thing. If you decide to start wearing panties, please get your own.”
Feigning disappointment, I said, “Darn! Samantha’s going to be so disappointed, what with her being so close to your size and all.”
“Well, be sure to tell Samantha, that’s what Victoria’s Secret is for.”
“Hey,” I added, “did you know that Victoria’s Secret is cross-dresser friendly.”
“Ooh! Remind me never to shop there again.”
“What? Why’s that?” I inquired.
“Think about it. Do you think I want to shop at a place and try on lingerie that may have just been tried on minutes ago by some…by some perv?”
Is that what she would think of me if I told her?
Before I could answer her rhetorical question, she continued on.
“Just the thought of what they might do with the lingerie in the dressing room makes me…makes me…well, it’s just plain gross if you ask me.”
“Sorry I mentioned it,” I said in deflated tone. “It’s just something I came across in the paper once.”
“Look, I’m not judging or anything. Whatever people want to do is their business. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
After a luxurious stretchy yawn, she rolled over and turned out the light on her bedside table.
Giggling she said, “Good night…Samantha.”
“C’mon Michelle. You know it was just a joke.”
“Mmm hmm. A joke you started I might add.”
“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Good night.”
I gave her a kiss and rolled over to my side of the bed.
Outwardly, I was quietly indignant, but inwardly my heart was aching because I longed for my wife to call me Samantha once more and set my heart all aflutter.
The next day was a beautiful day, but instead of basking in some unseasonably warm sunshine on a park bench while munching on my sandwich during my lunch break, I decided to seek out some company other than the pigeons who were beginning to accost me for some crumbs.
I moseyed the short distance down the busy sidewalk to the mall which was within walking distance of my office building. And I realized that with every calculated masculine step and restrained swing of my arms it was becoming as difficult for me to resist window shopping as it was for the city pigeons to resist diving in for a free meal in the form of breadcrumbs. The only difference was I think the pigeons had more self control!
For me, the breadcrumbs were in the form of the new spring fashions on display in every other shop it seemed lining Broad Street. Gorgeous red evening dresses and flirty little blue polka-dot and cute yellow sun-dresses taunted me along with the flawless curvaceous plastic figures which wore them behind the equally flawless glass.
Don’t look! Don’t draw any attention! I would shout at the exasperated woman inside.
But averting my gaze was just becoming harder and harder despite my fierce determination to fight such “inappropriate” feminine urges. I felt like I was doing battle with myself. But I knew I was losing. The urges were just getting more and more powerful, many orders of magnitude greater than the restless need of a newbie ex-smoker to light up a calming cigarette. And I should know. I had quit years ago. But how could I quit this? I was desperate to find a way. However, my desperation to find a way equaled my desperation to find a way to become the woman I kept locked up inside. Now my desperation for the latter seemed to be winning out on this beautiful day. That is, it was until I neared the enticing perfumed entrance to Victoria’s Secret!
At last! Female utopia!
Now, as I walked in and was greeted by one of the gorgeous young sales women, my heart was racing with exhilaration at the delightful anticipation of trying on any one of the assorted silky garments. Hanging on a rack, or perfectly folded on a table, it was a buffet of femininity for the eyes. I wanted to grab every type of lingerie and hold it against my petite frame while admiring myself in the mirror, but instead stood frozen like a statue. Perhaps if RuPaul had been casually shopping there I would have felt more at ease and less conspicuous, but as it was, I was the only guy (in the loosest sense of the word) in the store.
Finally summoning the courage, I walked over to the nearest table of bikini cut panties of assorted bright spring colors. But before I could reach for even one pair, another sales lady smiled at me. Now I felt uncomfortable and conspicuous once more because I didn’t know what kind of smile it was. Was it just the friendly “thanks for shopping here” kind of smile, or was it more of the “don’t worry hon, your secret’s safe with me and your wife need never know” type smile. I wasn’t sure. However, what I was sure of was that if I didn’t calm myself down, I was going to have to use one of the pairs of panties as a makeshift handkerchief because I was breaking out in a cold sweat.
So, what did I do to calm myself down? Well, call it pathetic, call it cowardly, but instead of reaching for a pair of the cute panties, I reached for my phone and pretended to read a newly received text, hoping that everyone would buy that it was from my wife. I forced a smile at the imagined conversation, slipped it back in my pocket, and then proceeded to superfluously check my watch.
Pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic! I muttered to myself as I exited with flushed cheeks.
The frustration and disappointment I felt was akin to summoning the courage to ask a girl to the Prom but then getting cold feet, as if heart rate was inversely proportional to the distance between yourself and your crush.
“Daniel?” wondered a familiar female voice coming from behind me.
Oh shit! Is that Mandy? I exclaimed in my already racing brain.
Apparently, the inverse law didn’t just apply to the object of one’s adoration. It also applied to coworkers!
To Be Continued...