Part One of Seven -- The complete novel has been posted.
Jim’s three co-workers are upset with him for having them dress in French-maid costumes for a company event. They meet with him, and demand that he go through a rehab process to become more sensitive to their feelings.
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch
To have a good friend is one of the highest delights of life; to be a good friend is one of the noblest and most difficult undertakings. - Anonymous
Part One of Seven - Completed
Prologue
My second-story bedroom window looked out over the deck where a brass and redwood wind chime cried out. The light breeze coming off Massachusetts Bay was causing it to make full use of its six notes. Although the wind played a random song it managed to be melodious and pleasing.
Late last night, I had skimmed through a book of names, and had stopped at Gill. It means “girlfriend.”
Once I had set aside a mispronunciation, which prompted the mental image of a fish, the name “Gill” seemed quite pretty. Coincidentally, fish oil is a fixative for perfume. A Gill by any other name would still smell as sweet.
Gill it was. Gill, as in Gill — ette, with a French-like soft “j.” I looked sharp, and I felt sharp, too.
Gill had been with me for as long as I could remember. She was to be with me permanently.
I sat at a two-drawer Shaker worktable that I used for a vanity. Its simplicity contrasted with the intricacies of my life. At times, I had made things more complex than needed. Instead of getting something simple from Chadwick’s, I had indulged myself with the antique, peach, silk-satin dressing gown that I was wearing.
My mind meandered through the tortuous journey from Jim to Jill to Gill while I painted my nails, in a shade suitable for travel. There had been a time when applying nail polish required my full concentration. With thousands of repetitions, the brushstrokes had become ingrained.
Or was it possible that my feminine actions had been instinctive? Instinct. . .or learned behavior? Had I chosen my life, or had the choice been made for me?
That wasn’t a simple question.
I thought again of another warm Saturday afternoon. That had been the day I had been forced to take my first decisive steps toward becoming Gill -- a girlfriend.
Chapter One
Who Wants To Be “It”
“Jim, you have no choice,” Debbie said. “If you don’t do exactly what we tell you to do, we’ll file suit. The scandal will ruin your marriage and career. You’re going to pay. You shouldn’t have embarrassed us the way you did the night of the Taste of France.”
I glared across the living room at Debbie, Sarah, and Anne, while realizing how badly I had misjudged them. They sat together on a large couch opposite the overstuffed chair that held me. The oatmeal and raisin cookie Debbie had served had lost its taste and was catching in my throat.
I don’t often misjudge people. My career had been built on quickly assessing abilities. I had fought my way up the ladder to a $200,000-a-year job by accurately judging how far I could push people to do things that were in my best interest.
In 1962, Warren Buffett purchased for $31,000 what became his life-long Omaha home on Farnam Street. My house was a short distance away from his. It cost sixty times that amount. We struggled under the mortgage -- but I loved the pressure. So what, if I habitually worked overtime? My family had a nice home and all the economic advantages. Sure, occasionally I had to finesse my staff. But overall -- I was good to my people.
The three girls who were blackmailing me apparently didn’t appreciate the fine line between motivation and manipulation.
They should have.
Perhaps they hadn’t been listening the many times I had recited one of my favorite maxims, “Every once in a while to move ahead, you have to do something you don’t want to do, something you might even fear.”
What was a little embarrassment compared to all the good we got out of that office party? I thought. Doesn’t the end sometimes justify the means?
Debbie, Sarah, and Anne all reported to me. We had been partners at one time. The four of us had worked together for Weston Law, before we resigned en masse to create our own little company. It had been a risky move. We had to work 60 - 75 hours weeks, in the beginning, to create a client base.
Within two years, our business became successful. We attracted the attention of the owners of National Corporation, who paid us what we thought was a lot of money to sell out and then work for them.
The closing had been sort of weird. National Corporation had made a mistake in their due diligence and had arrived at the closing with a check for almost $150,000 too much. We had agreed upon a formula for the purchase based on eight times pretax profits, for the past twelve months. My partners and I corrected the profit number they had used, as soon as we saw their error, even though our attorneys said that there was no way they would ever know the difference. We cut a check to them to square the deal, and then inked the contract.
I oversaw our division, which employed just over one hundred people. Our divisional office was in northwest Omaha. Although we weren’t lawyers, we dispensed wide-ranging legal advice acting as out-sourced paralegals for small law firms. We researched the law for attorneys who lacked adequate time or staff.
My people had agile minds and were very good at creating esoteric, innovative, and effective answers that were backed by accurate research.
Debbie, thirty-three, had been through a messy divorce after her first husband was ruined by cocaine. They had been members of the international jet set. Because of his drug abuse, they had lost their home -- and their love. She had moved two states away, and then quickly married the first man that would have her and her three-year-old daughter.
Her life went from taking the Concorde to London to see the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber opening, to searching the racks of Barnes and Noble to read about other peoples’ adventures. Debbie was attractive, in a once high school cheerleader / now den-mother kind of way. She dressed in Brooks Brothers, left over from the economic good times of her first marriage. She was the closest to me in age -- and in most arguments.
Sarah was already a confirmed spinster at twenty-nine. In her late teens, she had partied nightly with bikers. She could surprise you with her intelligence and sensitivity -- if she wanted to. I called her “Fergie” when she was out of earshot, or when I wanted to get her attention.
Sarah didn’t always react well to teasing or being compared to the Duchess of York, even though there was a strong physical resemblance. A sign over her desk said, “Whatever women do - they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.”
It was a direct affront to -- that I elected to ignore. We were good at ignoring one another.
Anne was also single and just five years out of college. She was intelligent and had moved quickly to the top in our organization. Her fantastic body and long golden hair drew instant attention. Anne dressed like Erin Brockovich, but was guilty of false advertising. She taught Sunday school and was most likely still a virgin.
The event where Debbie said I had embarrassed them, the Taste of France, had been my idea. I had wanted to entertain two hundred of our most important clients. We had rented a large banquet room and had caterers serve an elaborate French meal. To provide the final touch, I had Debbie, Sarah, and Anne serve clients champagne, while dressed in French-maid outfits.
My immediate supervisor with National Corporation, Tony Warran, had flown in for our soiree. He later suggested in an inter-divisional memo, that the managers of the other divisions hold similar parties. Per his memo, everyone had a wonderful time, with the night offering “unique opportunities” for him to “make meaningful contacts.”
I had heard things about Tony that bothered me, but not enough to disturb our working relationship. At forty-one, he was five years older than me. He loved to party. Other than his ability to go for the jugular when he had a distinct advantage, he was a bit of a lightweight as a businessman.
Tony was a throwback to the era of the three-martini lunch. He was the master negotiator for the company.
As Sarah put it, “Tony’s very good at dangling the bait and landing the fish. He’s a master-baiter.”
The girls and I laughed at his outdated attitudes and ever-present wingtips.
The girls had initially refused to wear their costumes.
Sarah flatly told me to “Put my French-fried ideas where the sun doesn’t shine.”
I dismissed their blatant (an anal-oriented) challenge to my authority as protesting too much. Every woman secretly wants to dress sexy when she can get away with it.
“Now that you bring it up,” I said. “Maybe. . .I guess I was a little insensitive.”
“A little insensitive?” Debbie asked. “Try totally-without-a-clue. You reduced us to waitresses. We looked horrible in the eyes of our most important clients, not to mention our subordinates.”
It might have been better had I not invited the entire office, when only Debbie, Sarah, and Anne were dressed as whores. I was decked out in a tux and, per my directive, all the other employees had worn formal attire.
“Deb — bie?” I asked. “Don’t you think everyone had fun? Sarah? Anne? Anne, what’s the big deal with you? Your everyday wardrobe can be pretty outrageous.”
Anne’s head snapped back as if I had rolled up a newspaper and smacked her, across the nose. If there had been a chance Anne would have relented, I had lost her. Dressing like she did must have caused her some pain somewhere along the line. She evidently was sensitive about her wardrobe.
Can I help it she has a Frederick’s of Hollywood sense of fashion? People can be so funny about their clothes.
“Don’t you girls know by now? I would never ask you to do something I wouldn’t.”
Knowing looks flashed between the three. Obviously, I had stepped into something.
“We’ve heard that ‘I would never ask you to do something I wouldn’t’ thing one too many times,” Sarah said. “Do you really think you’re that fair?” She spoke for the first time. Up until that point, all she and Anne had done was bob their heads in agreement with Debbie’s rant. “Jim, do you EVER hear yourself when you call us your ‘girls?’ Have you ever considered how demeaning the word ‘girls’ is to career women?”
I had pushed Sarah to take a Dale Carnegie course to help her express herself. It appeared I had created Frankenstein’s bride.
When had she formed the self-image of a career woman, and when was it decided I needed P.C. lessons? So what? The “career women” need to move the meeting along, so I can get out on the golf course, for my Saturday afternoon tee time. I’m not about to miss it because of a bitch session.
Debbie’s air-conditioner was laboring outside her patio door. Her husband had taken her daughter to the country club, for a swim. I was dressed in shorts, a polo shirt, and sandals, and they were all similarly casually dressed. I was drinking a Coke Debbie had offered with the cookies when I came in the door. They had asked me to meet them at Debbie’s house for a discussion. Although I considered them friends, I had never been to any of their homes.
I had gone to Debbie’s house after jogging five miles, followed by a quick shower at my home. I didn’t belong to a health club, as I didn’t feel all that comfortable when I was naked around other men. I had assumed the meeting had something to do with work, but I hadn’t suspected an ambush.
I lifted my drink to my lips, more to gain thinking time than to quench my thirst. Debbie must have left the pop open in her refrigerator for too long. It has an aftertaste. As I sipped, large drops of condensation trickled from my glass to my lap.
She hadn’t asked if I wanted anything stronger, because she knew I preferred not to drink alcohol before 6:00. I had watched Debbie pour the Coke straight out of a half-full liter bottle she had taken from the refrigerator. There wasn’t any liquor in my drink -- but I felt a buzz behind my eyes.
“You embarrassed the shit out of us,” Sarah said. “You’ve harmed our reputations with those who are the most important to our careers.”
“I’m the most important person to your careers.” I wink trying to lighten the tone of our conversation. “You wore those outfits to please me, although I think each of you secretly loved the opportunity to show a little T&A.” Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. Unanimous frowns and sighs came at me, from the other side of the room.
“Jiiimmmm.” Debbie stretched my name. “There isn’t any hope for you. You just don’t get it.”
I was fed up with their non-constructive criticism and felt lethargic. Perhaps I overdid my jogging. I’ll skip golf, and take a nap, as soon as I cut short their meeting. After a nap, maybe I’ll finally take Jackie and the kids to the zoo.
Debbie whined on. “We need to set things right. We’re prepared to take this matter to court if you don’t. . ..”
“Court? Wow! Give three little girls a fraction of a legal education, and they go hog-wild. ONE! You haven’t told me your terms. TWO! I haven’t the slightest idea what sort of legal position you think you have, and THREE! I’m a friend of every attorney within five hundred miles. Even if you really do have some half-assed legal theory, no one would represent you.”
I like to verbally number my arguments, letting people know I can think, count, and talk — all at the same time. Pulling myself out of the chair, I started for the door.
“Hey asshole! Do the words 'sexual harassment' mean anything to you?” Sarah asked.
I turned, walked back to my chair -- and glared at each of them. Glaring is one of the ways I intimidate people.
Sarah calling me an “asshole” was nothing new. However, the tacit approval she had received from Anne and Debbie was unnerving.
“Jim,” Debbie said, “When you hired me -- I was a mess. My nerves were shot. After the way my first husband treated me when he was wired, I had lost all my confidence. I’m not sure why you hired me, but I’m indebted to you.”
“Same here,” Sarah said. “I was stuck in the typing pool when you came to work for Weston Law. You saw my potential. I could still be in a dead-end position. I owe you big time.”
“You’re one of the few guys who have given me respect,” Anne said. “I thought that when I graduated with a 3.85 overall, with a double major in computer science and economics that businessmen would look past my body. Like that would ever happen? Same as Sarah and Debbie, I’m grateful you took a chance on me, and allowed me to have so much responsibility.”
“And yet,” I said. “You three are willing to sue me for sexual - - freaking - - - harassment! What a bunch of cunts. When I’m done with you, you’ll all have to move out of the country to find gainful employment. Sexual freaking harassment! You clowns!”
It was very quiet in the room. Everything that had been said hung in the air. The years we had been friends, all we had been through -- they were throwing it down the drain.
I would hate to do it, but they could be replaced.
Debbie was cooking something that smelled like pot roast. I decided to stop at McDonald’s on the way home to get a Big Mac, fries, and a vanilla malt.
Anne broke the silence. “Jim, I think you need to. . ..”
“No!” I cut her off. “It’s you three jerks that ‘need to’. . .‘need to’ think. If you shut up now, I’m going to pretend this never happened. You would think that you three would know enough about the law. What the hell are you thinking with? You can’t go around threatening people, especially when you don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“That’s just it, Jim. We do know the law,” Anne said. “We know what you did was horribly wrong. What you made us do would look terrible to a jury. We have the facts and the law on our side. This is a lot like the Hooters case.”
The Hooters case had involved a chain of bars that had hired well-endowed waitresses and dressed them in tight T-shirts. “You can’t use your employees to titillate and amuse your customers.” Anne was looking me right in the eyes, without a trace of fear in her voice. Although Anne was smart, she was also feminine. It was unusual for her to trust her abilities enough, to be strong in her convictions.
“Tit — il — late?” I asked. “I didn’t tell you to do anything sexual, with any of the clients. If any of you screwed a lawyer, you did it of your own volition.”
“Jiimmmm! Really!” Debbie was beginning to twitch around her eyes. She did that when she was upset. “We have our demands and you’re going to agree to them -- today. If you don’t, we’ll file the papers on Monday. If we file, your career will be over as soon as the World-Herald hits the streets. You need. . ..”
“The papers,” I broke in on her, “aren’t going to give a rat’s ass about a suit filed by three bitches looking for instant riches. Hey, that would make a good headline. Bitches Look for Riches.” I’m well aware what words like bitch and cunt do to girls. I used them purposefully to throw them off-stride.
Debbie’s house was charming and not overly large. When I sat down again, we were all within ten feet of one another, which was much too close.
Anne’s Eternity, which was a perfume that usually turned me on, had become strangely annoying. She was wearing a conservative white blouse, however, clearly showing through under it was a black, frilly bra.
Sarah restarted the conversation, which had ground to a halt. “You just don’t understand, do you? You pompous little twit. You’re up shit creek.” She turned to Debbie and Anne. “I told you he would be bull-headed. Show him the complaint. He’s not going to listen until we shove his nose into it.”
Debbie reached into her leather attaché, which had been a Christmas gift from me. What she handed me appeared to be a summons and complaint.
I balanced on the edge of my chair, as I gave it a cursory review. I had reviewed hundreds of complaints. Their shock value had diminished, as they were commonplace in our business. However, this one carried my name and the name of my employer. My sphincter muscle involuntarily tightened.
“Okay, okay. Good joke. You really outdid yourselves. This thing looks like the real thing. Okay. I apologize. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you wear those outfits. Do you accept my apology? Are we friends again?”
I was beginning to feel dizzy. The words on the complaint were blurry. Squinting, I made out the words “sexual harassment.” Upon flipping to the last page, I saw they were asking for fifteen million dollars in actual and punitive damages. Holy shit!
“Jim, it’s not a joke,” Anne said. She could have been a model for Alberto Vargas with her big eyes, pale skin, full lips, and sensual body. Her tone sounded friendly.
Maybe I didn’t offend her too much with my clumsy remark about her clothes. It’s Anne’s nature to forgive. She takes a lot from her boyfriend. I would never allow anyone to boss me around like that.
“We’re serious. If you don’t agree to our terms, you’re screwed.”
“Screwed” sounded extremely offensive coming out of Anne’s mouth. Sarah threw around foul language like confetti. Debbie could swear like a trooper after downing enough rum and Coke. But Anne always watched what she said, keeping her vocabulary immaculate and pristine.
I had been sweating for some time. I collapsed further into the easy chair, resolved to reach an understanding with them. Debbie’s massive furniture must have arrived with her marriage. I would have thought her living room to be light and airy. The heavy wooden arms on my chair are making it hard to find a comfortable position.
“Let’s say you talked some ambulance chaser into preparing these papers,” I said with a laugh. “Without a good lawyer involved, the newspapers wouldn’t dare report on a frivolous suit. Unless you retain a top-gun attorney, you have a one-in-ten chance of getting this case to court, and you’ll never win.” I was thinking, actually bluffing, out loud.
The local papers would run darn near anything to boost their circulation. Despite the spot I was in, I chuckled as I visualized the probable headline. Local Businessman Brought to His Knees by Sexual Harassment Suit. Sexual harassment usually involved a woman “brought to her knees,” with a cock in her mouth.
I looked from Anne to Debbie to Sarah expecting them to show signs of agreeing with my evaluation of the case. They normally did.
Given the intensity of the discussion their passive faces betrayed a lack of interest in my opinion and indicated careful joint-planning on their part.
If they can convince a few of the people who had been guests at the Taste of France to testify as to how demeaning the costumes had been, I was “screwed.” Harassment cases have a way of being decided for the plaintiff.
“Laugh all you want, shithead. You’ve had your fun and now it’s our turn.” Sarah used a tone of voice on me she reserved for attorneys who tried to weasel out of their bills. “While you’re laughing, look at the signature.”
I looked for the name Walt Dorner on the complaint. He was the only ham and egger I knew who would consider filing a suit against me. Dorner was a real dirtbag. He would paper his mother, if there was a dime in it for him.
“RA - FREAKING - BECCA!” Damn. Rebecca Turner has never lost a case. She’s a ball-buster.
I had helped her win most of her trials. In addition to almost always calling her Ra-freaking-becca, I also called her “Belt and Suspenders Becca.” She was never satisfied with one solid precedent when she could have two, three, or four. She planned for every possible contingency. Her preparation stopped only when the gavel came down ending the trial.
She was also a friend.
“This isn’t Rebecca’s signature. Do you think I’m that naive? Rebecca wouldn’t sue me. You’ve really stepped in it. When she sees this sham complaint, she’ll help me build an airtight extortion case, against all three of you.”
“You don’t understand sisterhood,” Sarah said. “You’ve let your prick do your thinking for too long. I’m going to enjoy teaching you a good lesson.” Sarah bent over the coffee table that separated us, and jabbed her index finger at me. “She’s really furious at the way you had us dress. She suggested that night that we sue you. She’s doing the legal work pro bono. Rebecca’s had it in for you for years. You really screwed up when you told her law partners it was your work that won several of her cases.”
I had made a few remarks along those lines to RA-FREAKING-BECCA’s partners at a charity smoker. It had been the scotch talking. Those were the kind of things guys say to guys. I would have to have a word with them about their lack of discretion.
What is it with women attorneys? They’re either ultra-feminine -- screwing every judge on the circuit, or they tend to be Marine lesbos with short hair and sensible shoes. Rebecca definitely isn’t a Marine. Her shoes are normally three-inch, Italian-made stilettos. She has short, but feminine hair. She’s been the object of more than a few fantasies I’ve enjoyed. I wonder which judge she’s bedding?
“She doesn’t think much of that disgusting nickname you’ve given her, either.” Anne said.
Anne’s too sensitive. Rebecca is a big girl. If there’s something about me she doesn’t like, she’ll let me know.
“I’m not buying it,” I said. “You’re bluffing. Maybe Ra — f. . .Rebecca did help you write this pile of shit. So what?”
Debbie looked at me like she did her daughter when she needed her nose wiped. “So -- here’s what, Jiiimmm. You’ve got no prospect whatsoever of landing another job at even half the package you’re getting from National Corporation -- not within five hundred miles of here, anyway. Jackie’s family is all within fifty miles. She isn’t about to move. If you lose this job, your marriage will be over. You’ve got approximately $225,000 in the bank and in stocks. Your chances in a divorce court, once this suit has disgraced you, would be nil. The money will all go to Jackie along with custody of the boys. You’ll be toast.”
Jackie? What will Jackie say and do? I love that woman, but she can be unreasonable. The kids are great, but without my job, I won’t be a decent provider. I have to figure a way out. Jackie despised the costumes I made the girls wear. She chewed me out, before she left the party to do volunteer work at an abused women’s shelter. Jackie doesn’t like the way I act at work, and normally avoids office functions.
“Once we sue, Tony will turn on you in a flash,” Anne said. “You screwed up bad. That guy will fire you to protect himself. He’s such a jerk.” Anne’s mouth looked like she had sucked on a lemon.
I leaned forward in my chair, to signal I was willing to be reasonable. Maybe it was stress, or maybe it was too warm, even though I was furious and full of adrenalin, I had to stifle a yawn.
“Okay,” I said. “You don’t know shit about how Tony or Jackie would react, but I’ll listen to your demands. Let’s talk this out.”
Debbie assumed her role of office manager. “This is the release you will sign.” She shoved another legal document in front of me. It was a release based on several conditions. I glanced at the back page and saw RA --- ahhh -- Rebecca’s signature. It looked official. I was surprised there was no money mentioned in their demands.
It appears they wanted a moral victory. The fifteen million dollars they had demanded in the complaint had been strictly for bargaining.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
What a bunch of twats. I’ll sign their silly-ass paper and pretend to go along. Then I’ll pick them off one by one, tossing them out on the street.
According to the release, I’m to admit I had acted egregiously. As long as I meet their ongoing demands, they won’t file the suit, or notify National Corporation. During the next two years, I’m to do everything necessary to become compassionate in regards to the “horrible and painful experience” I had put them through the night of the Taste of France.
I’m to follow their instructions explicitly. If necessary, they can take punitive action. I’m to give them my credit cards, to pay all incurred expenses. If I fail to make every effort to understand Anne, Sarah, and Debbie’s humiliation, and if I didn’t come to real and true contrition, they will immediately file suit against my employer and me.
I’m to agree I won’t contest their suit, if it has to be filed, due to my non-compliance. I’m to agree to stipulate the facts of the case, as outlined in the complaint Pacta Sunt Servanda, under which the parties agree to observe all the conditions of the contract without fail. I’m to plead Nolo Contendere if they decide to also seek criminal charges against me.
“Criminal charges?” I asked.
Anne’s beautiful blue eyes and saintly face beamed at me. “Rebecca thinks we can create some new law in that area. Rebecca thinks we can successfully plead to the state’s attorney that you inflicted mental anguish on all of us. Rebecca thinks they might name a new kind of criminal act after you. Rebecca thinks you will be classified as a sex offender.”
Rebecca thinks. Rebecca thinks. Obviously, they think I’m someone who cares what Rebecca thinks. Unfortunately for me, they’re right. Damn! I’m over a barrel. Having a felony named after me isn’t the kind of fame I’ve been seeking all my life. Given my slight build, I can imagine what would happen to me in jail as a sex offender.
I have to sign. I’ll take a few sensitivity courses to heighten my awareness of the female condition. I haven’t done anything reprehensible, but I’ll take the high road by signing the release. Once they let down their guard, I’ll fire them.
I have to save face. I can’t agree too easily. “This doesn’t seem to be very specific. We need to add something to limit your ability to cause damage to my reputation. The contract needs something that would allow arbitration of your intended punishments.”
Taking the release from me, Sarah held it in her hands, as if she was preparing to rip it in half. “Screw you. All the crap we’ve done for you over the years, and you repay us by making us look like freaking whores. Up yours! We’re not here to negotiate.”
“Sarah. . ..” Debbie reached to stop her. “Give Jim a chance to reconsider. We have to think of Jackie and the kids.”
“Is that your tactic?” I asked. “Do you think you can push me into a dumb decision by reminding me of my duty to my family? That’s cheap. Debbie, I’ll bet you’ve got extra copies of the release in your briefcase, in case Sarah actually did rip that one.”
Bull’s-eye!
Anne and Debbie reddened.
Sarah slammed the document down on the table and settled back in her chair. “So Needle-dick, how do you like it? Remember when you used peer pressure to make us wear those outfits? You threatened to cut the discretionary employee benefits, if we didn’t agree to wear them. You even put that happy horseshit in an office memo. You were such a prick. Had we refused to wear those damned skirts, everyone in the office would’ve suffered.”
The peer pressure had worked. I can see why Sarah is upset. She’s overweight and her costume called attention to her thighs, but Debbie had looked darned good and Anne had been breath-taking.
“Rebecca tells us,” Sarah continued, “that your memo will be marked as exhibit A. When you read that memo for the jury, they’ll know exactly how you forced us into doing the things that eventually caused Anne so much pain and suffering.”
Evidently, Sarah had said more than she should have. The twitch around Debbie’s eyes told me I didn’t know everything that had happened that night. Their complaint wasn’t specific about what had occurred.
Anne turned away, to wipe a tear from her cheek.
I hate tears. Anne and Sarah are quick to cry when things don’t go their way. I admire Debbie’s ability to hold back her tears.
Even Debbie cried, if the facts in a case that she was researching were particularly appalling. Debbie specialized in divorce law. Whenever the divorce involved abusive behavior, out came the tissues.
What a bunch of ninnies. Women have no pride.
“Maybe I should sign the release and make things right, if that’s what you want. It looks like I might need some sensitivity training.” Yeah, right; I hope they’re buying my bullshit. I’ve done nothing the boys in Boston wouldn’t have done. Taking some courses to improve myself might even look good to the home office. “You do realize I can’t sign anything as open-ended as this! What if you told me I had to parade down Dodge Street in one of those maid outfits? I couldn’t do that. I’m too much of a man to do such a thing. It wouldn’t be right.”
No one offered to reword the agreement. The automatic icemaker in Debbie’s refrigerator clattered new cubes, into its bin.
“Aw freak it,” I said, grabbing the papers. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I’m going to sign this, and then count on you to be sensible. If it’s an apology you want, it’s an apology you’ll get. I’m a man of my word. I’ve always been, and will always be, a man of my word.”
As I signed, fatigue battered me. I sagged back into my chair and drifted toward darkness.
A voice came from behind me, “Jill, you did the right thing agreeing to their terms, but I doubt that you’ll always be a ‘man’ of your word.”
Jackie’s in the room.
She had called me by my female name. . .Jill!
Jackie only used that name begrudgingly, during our lovemaking, when I begged her. Then she would only say it in the dead of night, in a whisper, in our bedroom, where no one else could hear. I turned my head to her voice.
My sweet Jackie is standing in the back of the room with her arms crossed.
The world dissolved to black.
(In Chapter Two, Jim wakes up naked in a motel room and finds two letters on the table. One letter is from his wife. The other is from his three “friends.” The boxes scattered around the room are filled with his secret wardrobe.)
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Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.
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Imperfect Futures
The Handshake That Hides the Snake
Jim wakes up naked in a motel room. There are two letters on the table. One is from his wife and the other is from his three friends. There are several boxes in the room filled with his secret wardrobe.
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend Part Two
By Angela Rasch
Chapter Two
A Prison for My Mind
Two of Seven Chapters
As I opened my eyes, I was greeted by a dull headache. I had obviously been drugged.
I was naked, in bed, in a motel room, covered by a chenille bedspread and a sheet. I sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled back the edge of the drapes. The motel had seen its better days. It had about twenty units, and judging by the lack of cars -- few customers.
The door to the room, which led directly to the parking lot, was not locked. Locked or unlocked, it made no difference to me. I needed answers -- before I could decide where to go.
The room was sparse, dingy, and had been modified. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror made the area look bigger than its tiny dimensions. The room had no TV or radio. There was a phone jack, but no phone.
In addition to the bed, the furniture included an old-style dressing table with a big mirror like my mother once had, an overstuffed chair, a tall dresser, and a nightstand with a clock that said 11:00. I had been out, for over twenty hours.
The room had recently been cleaned with pine-scented disinfectant.
Scattered around the room were cardboard bankers’ boxes, the kind we used at work to store old files. The closet was empty.
The full bath no longer had a door to allow privacy. After standing over the toilet, for quite some time, relieving myself, I gave the room another going over. I found two sealed envelopes on the nightstand. One was addressed to Jill - my husband, the other was directed to, Jill - our soon to be friend.
I opened the one from Jackie.
Dear Jill,
I have loved you for almost two decades. Ever since I met you, I knew that you were the person I wanted to be with the rest of my life.
At times, it has been difficult living with you. At times, you lack basic compassion.
You don’t understand my needs, or just don’t care.
When you are in women’s clothing you change -- and I lose my identity. Sometimes, I think our lovemaking is really your masturbation. You become so lost in the pleasure of your female role that you shut me out.
I want you as a husband. I want you as a friend. I can’t stand to have you around when you are unhappy and uncaring.
Because of your lack of compassion, bad things have happened.
You can be so much better than you are. I can hardly wait to see you when this is all done. I know you will remember how to be the loving, kind, and considerate person I married.
You will become a person who is finally true to your identity.
If by some extremely slight chance, you come out of this experience unchanged, I will have no choice but to demand that you move out. In that case, I will file for divorce and custody of the children.
Please listen to your friends. Do what they tell you.
I love you.
Jackie
Damn her. What has she done? Haven’t I expressed my love by telling her my most intimate secret?
How could she have done this to me? She’s seen how I get when I don’t get relief from the pressures at work, by cross-dressing. Dressing as a woman isn’t a hobby. I absolutely have to do it. It’s part of what maintains the lifestyle we both enjoy.
Damn! She’s really done it. We’re truly screwed.
“Listen to your friends.” Is she nuts? They want to ruin me over a little embarrassment. Someone must have said something awful to Anne.
What the hell was Jackie thinking of when she betrayed me? I’ve always thought Jackie’s hatred of cross-dressing is at least in part because of some discomfort with her own gender role. She’s as feminine a person as there is. Yet, at times, she wants to put her arms around my shoulders. At times, she wants to be the one in control. She wants to make the decisions I should make.
My anger and disappointment were all-consuming. I stared at the ceiling for over an hour before deciding to read the other letter. Jackie’s letter had been handwritten on plain, white, typing paper.
The other letter was on corporate letterhead, in business memo format.
To: Jill
From: Debbie, Anne, and Sarah
Subject: Friends Four Life
What the hell does that subject line mean?
We would love to get to know you. We would love for you to know us. We can’t let you go on the way you have, in the past.
You don’t understand what you’re like at times. Your frustration with your life has left everyone around you feeling your pain in different ways. Our pain is real.
Anne’s is very real.
Six months ago, you went to Boston for a home office meeting. The three of us took Jackie out to dinner. It was a normal night for the three of us. Jackie was in bad shape, long before the rest of us had even gotten started.
Sarah and Debbie can drink with the best. Jackie’s limit is two glasses of wine.
We went to your house for a nightcap. We used that as an excuse to give Jackie a ride home. Your kids were in bed. After the babysitter went home, Jackie continued to drink and started to pour her heart out. She told us your marriage was on the rocks. She blamed the problems on someone named Jill.
It took us forever to realize just who Jill is. Once we caught on, things began to fall in place. Your shoulder-length hair, the frequently too long fingernails, the occasional raccoon eyes, and the sweet-smelling “aftershave” you wear at times — it all fit.
Jackie showed us pictures of Jill. She gave us a few to keep.
We assured her that your secret - her secret - was safe with us.
Sure my secret is safe -- until they need the pictures to humiliate me. Why did I ever take pictures of myself? What had I been thinking of? How could Jackie do this to me?
Several weeks ago, you came up with the idea to hold a Taste of France party. It was a good idea -- until you felt a need to prove to everyone that you’re the master.
It doesn’t take much of a psychologist to realize that we were being used to affirm your masculinity. The three of us have seen your compulsion to over-compensate hurt you again and again. You have taken unnecessary risks. You have pushed situations to the extreme, to show everyone that you’re the man.
We all think that you’re a good person. We’ve seen the good that you do and wish you didn’t have such a huge chip on your shoulder.
Each of us left your house that night worried about you and your marriage. Over the next few weeks, we thought and talked about little else. We have used our research techniques to pour through everything we could locate on cross-dressing. We were amazed to find a gender studies curriculum involving the transgendered at almost every major university. We probably now know more about what goes on in your mind than you do.
According to the books we’ve read, you’re suffering from mental anxiety. Even though your guilt is inappropriate, you are conflicted by society’s disapproval.
We arranged to give you several gender tests. They were part of the employee personality evaluations everyone took a few weeks ago. Your tests were much more extensive than the tests the others took. Attached are the results of one gender test, which is eighty-six percent confident that your gender is female. Your other gender tests showed similar results.
You have gender dysphoria due to your unhappiness with your gender identity.
At the time I took those tests, I had wondered about their relevance, but Debbie said that the home office had ordered them.
We have established what we think is a logical course of action for you to take. Scholars at York University, Cal State University, University of Cal Berkley, and the University of Nebraska at Lincoln (who have been the most helpful) have agreed, in theory, with our plan.
You have no choice but to go through this process. Should you decide not to cooperate, it will probably mean the end of your marriage and career. In the boxes, you will find your clothes and all the toiletries and necessities you will need.
We have taken care of the home office. As far as they know, your doctor (who is a friend of ours, who has never met you) has recommended bed rest for you for the next several weeks. Her letter and a note with your signature have gone into Boston. As far as they know, you’re now officially on short-term disability due to a rare virus that has sapped all your strength. They’ve been told that full recovery is expected, and that the length of the recovery is different for each person.
The doctor is willing to testify to your forgery of the above note, should you fail to follow our orders. Forgery and fraud (for accepting disability payments when you aren’t disabled) would be added to the criminal charges you already know can be brought against you.
We have prepared a full packet of information regarding “Jill” to be shipped to Boston should you fail to follow every instruction. We have created a website with the pictures. Should you be fired, we will upload the website, and send a letter to every prospective employer we can think of, with the website’s address.
It is doubtful anyone would hire you given the criminal sex offender’s charges Rebecca is sure to get the state’s attorney to file against you, should that become necessary.
In the past, you’ve used your female side for escapism. We think you can do better than that. Good luck!
For the next few days, we want you to relax and think about what you really want out of life. There are forms attached for elective surgery. They need your signature. You have a large nose that has been broken many times. You’ve been ashamed of your nose for too long. We think getting your nose fixed is one of the first steps on the road to full recovery. The company’s insurance will pay for this surgery as part of the “recovery from the virus.”
For today, unpack your things, and get settled. Do what is obviously needed.
Tuesday morning at ten, we will take you to a restaurant to eat. There are two high-energy bars in the desk. Other than those bars, the only food you will get for a while will be what we buy for you at a restaurant. Dress for family-style dining.
We want to be your friends. Take the next two days to think about things. Try to get over your anger. We assure you it’s misplaced.
When you’re recovered, we will discuss how to make things right between the four of us.
Debbie, Anne, and Sarah
Except for part of a cookie, I hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. What little had been in my stomach was soon in the toilet.
Has the whole world gone nuts? First, Jackie violated a trust that has served as a base for our marriage. Then Debbie, Sarah, and Anne decide to be The Freudettes.
I need a plan. I’m not just up against my three so-called friends. There’s a full-blown conspiracy involving Jackie, Ra-freaking-Becca, a doctor, some psychiatrists, and probably others.
My brain kicked in, and the terror that had gripped me subsided.
They’ve already made bad mistakes. Their three-page memo contains enough physical evidence to hang all three of them. I’ll get dressed, leave the motel, and find an attorney. I’ll use their memo, as leverage, to get them to give me the website and turn over the pictures.
I’ll use Jackie’s letter to force her to listen to me. By drugging me, they’ve broken several laws and caused the contract to be invalid. Jackie’s an accomplice. Somehow, she’ll have to truly accept me.
If Sarah, Anne, and Debbie don’t agree, I’ll send the three of them to jail, for a long time, for abduction, extortion, slander, libel, and conspiracy. They’ll all be sorry.
As I searched each of the boxes for something to wear, I found all of my “Jill” clothes, including make-up, wigs, toiletries, and jewelry. The boxes contained nothing else. There was no sign of my wallet. They must have taken the credit cards to pay the expenses, per the agreement I signed.
The girls want to embarrass me by forcing me to wear women’s clothing. I’m to be their entertainment. What a bunch of sick puppies! They’re going to try to drag me around Omaha, in a skirt. I can’t leave the motel dressed in those clothes!
I looked in the boxes, again. They represented many pleasurable hours of online shopping. Jackie hated it when Amazon made a delivery. Her face let me know how foolish she thought I was being.
At least they included my shaving kit. I took out my toothpaste and toothbrush and then cleaned the foul taste of vomit, from my mouth.
My head was pounding. A glass of water was on the nightstand with two tablets that I assumed were aspirin. By providing aspirin, they had shown that they did have hearts. Good! I’ll use their kindness to take them out.
I swallowed the aspirin and rested on the bed. As I looked at the ceiling, I thought of everything I had done in my life, to get to where I was.
My thoughts ran to the immense effort it had taken to push myself away from the “can’t do” attitude, on our family farm. I had become a “can do” person. I set high, but reasonable goals for myself -- and then surpassed them. I found a way.
They’re trying to take it all away from me. It isn’t fair. I’ll show them. Why is this happening? The box they’ve put me in is nothing compared to the imprisonment and suffocation I’ve felt all my life. For all their research about cross-dressing, they have no idea how I feel.
I had often fantasized about being caught. Those fantasies were erotic and fun.
This reality is a nightmare. I’m not in control. They aren’t playing fair. My face aches with frustration. I want to cry. No, I can’t. I can’t lose control. I have to stay focused.
Sleep took me.
***
I awoke with women’s clothing tossed all around me. Immediately, everything fell into its awful place. Those “aspirin” must have been sleeping pills. I have to be more careful. I can’t trust them. They want me well-rested -- probably so that I’ll be fully aware of my humiliation when it occurs.
It’s 7:00 in the morning. In three hours, I have to be ready to face my tormentors.
I have to be ready to do whatever is needed to escape and get to the authorities. Sure, there’ll be embarrassment. But somehow, I’ll survive. I always have. I read both letters again, several times. Damn them! I’m not going to play their game. They’ll never see me in those clothes.
I need money, a way to get home, a way to turn the tables, a way to get to them, to stop them before they ruin me.
But how?
At 10:00 they knocked at the door.
I refused to get dressed, or even open the door.
So, they abruptly left.
With all the sleep and resulting mental clarity, came the realization of the enormity of my problem. I have to do what they say. I can’t take the chance of losing everything. Can they really have me jailed as a criminal sex offender? It’s evident that I can’t go to the police.
Imagine, “Hi officer. I’m a transvestite and three women are picking on me. Say, big guy, do you like my pumps?”
I’m in a tight spot. I’ll fight them. I’ll show them. . .somehow.
***
The next day at 10:00, I was still as naked as I had been two nights before. They said they would be back the next day. No food for me.
The picture on the wall was Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” It haunted me, as did the lyrics from the Don McClean song; “With eyes that know the darkness of my soul.”
The eleven stars in the picture were yellow eyes -- monitoring my lack of action. I wasn’t doing anything -- because I couldn’t. Van Gogh painted “Starry Night” while he was confined in an asylum. Had the girls picked this room for its painting, as a commentary on my mental health?
***
As I stood over the toilet at 7:00 on Thursday morning, I decided that I needed to convince them I was willing to go along with their plan.
I hadn’t had food, except for the power bars, since Saturday morning. It was going on six days.
I need food for strength. They might not starve me, but they’re willing to let me get painfully hungry. I’m drinking plenty of water, so I’m not in any immediate physical danger. I’ll get dressed in something that would get them to think that I’m actually going to have breakfast at a restaurant.
There are some issues I need to work out. I hadn’t been fair with everyone.
Maybe I can learn something by talking it through with them, but it has to be done under my rules.
First, I have to escape the trap I’m in. Me --- fully dressed as a woman in public. I can’t go through with their plan. Under the circumstances, I don’t dare show up at our house, to face Jackie, dressed as a woman. What if the boys saw me?
Flight is all I have in mind. I’ll grab one of their purses to get money for a cab. Maybe there’ll be a credit card in the purse that I can use to get out of town, and work things out.
It isn’t that I can’t pass. I’m convinced I can. I’m an inch or two shorter than most men. There were a lot of women taller than me. I don’t have a prominent Adam’s apple, and I’m not overly muscular.
I’m thicker through the waist than most women, but not out of the ballpark -- weighing in at about 170 pounds. Lots of women wear a size twenty, like me. My hair is long enough. I’ll just comb it into a high ponytail, and use a scarf to tie it.
I don’t actually need to pass in public. I just have to be convincing to whoever comes to take me out to breakfast, until I can make my move. Then, I’ll get away from them and go somewhere I can think. Cabbies have seen everything. That’ll be no problem.
In time, I’ll find a way to contact Jackie on my terms, not theirs. Maybe, if she comes to her senses, we can salvage something.
I had dressed as a woman many times, so I knew the sequence of how things had to be done. I needed to prepare as if I was actually going out.
There were some things -- like shaving my legs -- that I hadn’t done before, but I needed to go all out, and the idea of making a maximum effort appealed to me. I had been frustrated by my lack of action. I found great satisfaction in finally doing something - - anything.
When I dressed as Jill, I liked things to be ultra-feminine. All my pantyhose were sheer.
I couldn’t go out with my hairy legs. I ran a bath and poured Chanel No. 5 bath oil to soothe my mind. Chanel was the first scent I had ever bought for myself, and I had never grown tired of it.
I shaved my legs while lying in the warm water made oily by the excessive amount of bath oil I had used. I realized I wouldn’t be able to wear shorts to jog, for a few weeks. I can live with that.
I have good-looking legs. They don’t have a lot of hair on them. Even so, once they’re shaved, I can see a real difference. Not bad! Maybe there’s a silver lining to my ordeal.
As I ran my hands over my legs checking for stubble, I was turned on. I don’t need that. I can’t become intoxicated by my femininity. I need all my masculine logic to get out of my predicament. I have to be strong. Even though my body is screaming for sexual relief, I’ll keep my hands to myself, er, away from myself.
I’m fairly sure they have the room bugged, and probably even equipped with surveillance cameras. Our involvement with attorneys and court battles had shown me the value of videotape. I’m not going to serve-up footage of me jerking off.
Truman Capote once said, “The good thing about masturbation is that you don’t have to dress for it.” He certainly wasn’t talking about the life of a transvestite.
With a few days’ growth on my face, I desperately needed a shave. A painful nick told me that shaving hair on my legs and shaving my beard don’t mix. The blade had gone dull. I replaced it, and shaved three times for closeness: up, down and across. Each time, I used a smear of Oil of Olay to protect my face from razor burn. I used Noxzema’s For Sensitive Skin Shaving Cream.
After shaving, I jumped into the shower and shampooed my hair. Once out of the shower, I used a blow dryer. Time was of the essence. So, I set it on high.
Once my hair was sufficiently dried, I powdered my body with Chanel No. 5 body powder. I used Powder Fresh Scent Ban deodorant.
I don’t want to offend my friends with body odor if things get rough. Even though I’m angry at their disloyalty and injustice, I don’t anticipate a need for physical violence. The one thing I can’t do was hit any of them. I’m not by nature a fighter.
More importantly, Jackie would never forgive me.
I’m angry.
I want to grab all three of them by their necks. I want to “grab” them, and they want to “garb” me, the same four letters, with a big difference in meaning. We’ll see who’ll ultimately get to “brag.”
Over the years, I had developed a habit of putting on lingerie before doing my face. I wanted to see a woman in the mirror, thus guarding my self-delusion. I located a pair of cotton panties and a cotton bra in one of the boxes -- also pantyhose and a body shaper. I used other pantyhose to fill the C-cups of the bra.
My choices were to wear either a dress or a skirt. Jill didn’t own any slacks. The dress seemed logical. It was cut full enough to allow me plenty of movement. I wanted to be able to be as physical as might be needed.
The dress was one I particularly liked. It came to about mid-thigh and had a paisley pattern on a dark-blue background. The first time I had fixed dinner for Jackie as Jill, I had worn that dress. I look good in it. That dress is a huge confidence builder.
Once I selected my dress, I knew the color of cosmetics to use. I started with a heavy coat of foundation. The heavier I spread it on, the better it would hide my beard. Next, I liberally brushed blush on the middle of my cheeks. I used a dark-blue powder on my lids and blended it with a sky-blue that I carried almost to my eyebrows. I also drew the powder a quarter-inch out beyond the end of my eyebrows. The effect was dramatic.
Next, I glued false eyelashes in place and swept them several times with dark-black mascara. My face was perfect. I set it with enough powder to take away all the shine. I moved on to my lips using Really Red. It was the reddest red I owned. I finished with a thick coat of gloss. I loved the taste and smell of Max Factor lipstick. I preferred the texture of Revlon. On those rare occasions when I didn’t wear gloss, I used Revlon.
In the mirror was the Jill that I loved.
While applying my make-up I had grown stiff again. Damn those cameras. Damn those girls. Once I’m out of this fix, I’m going to do whatever I want, and they can’t stop me.
I slipped the dress over my head. It had three-quarter length sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. I added my pearl necklace and clip-on pearl drop earrings. I didn’t own a woman’s wristwatch. I did have a tennis bracelet, which I snapped on my wrist.
I was wearing a pair of black two-inch heels. I had briefly considered four-inch. They would have made my legs look even better. But I wanted to be able to run.
Haute couture has to take a back seat.
I looked in the mirror for flaws and saw perfection. The dark-blue scarf I used to tie my ponytail topped off my costume. I’m unreadable. I dabbed Channel No. 5 perfume on my wrist and behind my knees and ears. I also sprayed myself with Chanel No. 5 cologne.
My transformation was completed, with thirty minutes to spare. I had time to take the extra step of painting my nails. Because I filed my nails and never clipped, they grew quickly. I kept them about an eighth of an inch past my fingertip. I had been filing my nails, for about five years. They weren’t as long as I would have liked for that morning. But they will do. I don’t have any Lee Press-On Nails.
I selected a polish that closely matched my lipstick. I opened the polish bottle. My penis rose to the occasion by reacting to the scent. My dick was trapped inside the body shaper and was seeking release. It wanted to come out and play, and it didn’t understand why it couldn’t.
Sarah had her nails done professionally. I would show her that she was wasting her twenty-five dollars. I would make them perfect with three coats. If I could do it, so could she. As I really didn’t have all the time I needed, I used the hairdryer set on hot to blow on my nails between coats. The last coat had gone on at five minutes to ten. I used the hairdryer, again. My bright red nails glistened, raising my self-esteem.
As I came out of the bathroom examining my beautiful hands, I ran right into Debbie, Anne, and Sarah.
It was precisely 10:00. I hadn’t heard their knock, probably because of the noise of my hairdryer. I hadn’t locked the room’s door, so they had let themselves in. I was startled, then embarrassed, and then stirred by the challenge before me.
I decided to convince them I was ready to play along by going into character.
“Oooh myyy, wheeere haaas the tiime gooone? Is iiit teeen-n-n already?” My voice sounded exactly like Scarlett O’Hara. I hope that they’re pea-green with envy.
“So, this is ‘Jill.’”
Hearing Debbie say “Jill” was disconcerting.
“Wow! You’re hot.”
I can’t let her compliment put me off from my goal.
I have to look for an opportunity to get out of my calamity. I can’t really tell if she’s being a smart-ass, or if she’s really admiring my beauty. From the looks on their faces, they’re surprised. They obviously didn’t expect me to look so good.
Compared to me, the three of them look dowdy.
I blushed, pleased at long last, to be able to show Jill to someone other than Jackie. They were subjecting me to real scrutiny. I was ashamed, but at the same time - quite content with my presentation.
Reality hit home.
I have no real plan.
There’s none to be had that would allow me to get out of the fix I’m in. I have to do what they say, because my entire life is at stake.
So much for running off!
Before they had arrived, I stuck the incriminating letters inside my dress. That, and all my other preparations -- had been for nothing.
“So, are you hungry?” Sarah wasn’t one to get her priorities out of order.
Surprisingly, I hadn’t thought much about food. Note to Maslow: When faced with total ruin, your hierarchy of needs becomes flexible.
“I suppose I could eat a little,” I said.
“Let’s take care of minor details then we can go to Perkins.” Anne seemed to be in good spirits. “Once you return the two letters and the signed form, we can strap on the feedbag.”
“Letters?” If I give them the letters, my tenuous plans to incriminate them will become even less realistic. My options are evaporating.
“Come on Jiillll.” Debbie wasn’t going to be easy on me. “I put the letters on the nightstand myself.”
“I say we forget the whole thing, and turn the photos over to management in Boston,” Sarah said. “They’ll fire his perverted ass. I’ll take my chances, on the new boss being less of a dick.”
“Come on Sweetie,” Anne said. “You don’t want to be all dressed up with no place to go, do ya? I thought we had a date? What are yaaa ... chicken?” She was grinning, and having a good time. She didn’t want it spoiled by being tough.
“Okay, okay.” I used my Jim voice again, as I reached inside the front of my dress, and pulled out the papers.
Debbie giggled. “Down the front of your dress, Jiiilllll? You’ve seen waaayyy too many movies.”
I handed the papers to Anne. By playing up to Anne, I was trying to form an alliance with her. She appeared to be the weakest link.
My hopes diminished when Anne took the contents out of the envelopes and examined them. “Hey, you haven’t authorized the nose job. What’s going on here? What are you trying to pull? We saw you read the letters.”
I was right! They do have cameras. It’s a good thing I used discretion in the tub.
Anne handed me the form, with a pen.
“If you don’t sign the form immediately, there’s going to be trouble.” Debbie’s face was etched with resolve.
“Okay, I’ll sign, for whatever that’s worth to you,” I said. No decent doctor will operate without my verbal consent — the form is meaningless.
Debbie sighed, and placed the two letters and the signed authorization, in her briefcase, with obvious care.
Anne was pleased and once again became bubbly. “Are you ready to go to breakfast, Jill? Do you want me to help you with your make-up or hair?”
What the hell is she talking about? My hair is just fine and my make-up is perfect -- better than theirs. You can hardly tell they have any on. No, I’m not mentally ready for Jill’s first public appearance, but any fool can see I’m physically ready. I need food. I need time to think, to develop a plan. They’ve won round one, but I can win the fight -- by a knockout, in the second round.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“Do you want to take a purse?” Sarah asked. Sarah had been the one who, for years, had called my soft-sided briefcase a purse, which bugged me.
Even though I didn’t think of my briefcase as a purse, she had been hitting too close to home.
“No. Why would I need a purse?” I asked. “You’re buying and I’m not on the rag.”
Debbie frowned.
What the hell is her problem? I’m the one being made to look foolish. Maybe she’s pissed because my disguise is too good. Maybe she thought I would be wearing a wig she could yank off halfway through the meal.
Once we were outside the door, I noted the motel was in a secluded area close to where Ak Sar Ben racetrack had been.
Ak Sar Ben -- Nebraska spelled backwards -- was a monument to how quickly things can change. For nearly a century, it had been one of the premier racetracks in the country. As late as the mid-eighties, it had been in the top-ten in attendance of all U.S. tracks.
Many came to see the resting place of the Triple Crown winner, Omaha, who was the only Triple Crown winner to have been sired by a Triple Crown winner -- Gallant Fox. The decision to close Ak Sar Ben permanently had been made overnight. Supposedly the change had been needed.
The temperature was already in the high seventies. The humidity was stifling, which is about average for Omaha. Sarah was in the back seat with me. She was to be my keeper, a role she relished. They were on guard so I couldn’t run off, even if it was a realistic option. The three of them chattered like birds, giving the impression of happiness and contentment.
About halfway to the restaurant, in Debbie’s Toyota Camry, I noticed my smeared nail polish. When I had reached inside my dress for the letters, I must have wiped polish on my clothes. My fingers were a mess.
Sarah saw me looking at my hands. “Next time, give yourself a few more minutes between coats. Sometimes it takes me two hours to do mine. That’s why I have them done. I can make an appointment for you at my salon, if you would like. If you really get in a bind, set your hairdryer on cool. That dries them quicker.”
Strange as it seemed, she appeared to be trying to be kind. I’m not going with her to any damned nail salon. Maybe she’s making some sort of subtle threat. Nope, can’t be, Sarah never insinuates when she can hit you with a brick.
My stomach was in knots. All too soon, we were in the restaurant’s parking lot. I looked for an escape route. The idea of flight was hard to repress, even though I knew I had to do whatever they told me.
As we waited to be seated, the hostess spent much too much time looking at me. I tried to slide behind the other three. Every time I dared to look -- she was openly gawking.
“Smoking or non-smoking for you four - ah - ladies?”
She’s the first person to see me, and I’ve been read. What are the odds?
She paraded us to a table, in the center, of the room.
Why didn’t she put us, in a booth, in a corner? It was as if she wants me on display. I’m the grand prize and she’s Vanna White, waving her arms and hands toward me.
“Your waitress will be with you in a minute. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
I wanted to order a quart of scotch -- to go. The others had all ordered pink lemonade. Not wanting to draw any more attention to myself, I used my best Scarlett O’Hara voice. “Ah’ll have a big ol’ glass of lemonade as welll.”
“Coming right up suugaaar,” the hostess said. “Aren’t you the sweetest little thing?”
I was certain by her tone that she knew I was being forced to dress as I was.
She also knew what I had between my legs, and who was calling the shots. She took a moment to look each of us in the eyes. “Your waitress will bring you your drinks. You have a nice morning, whatever it is you’re up to.”
There it is -- that unspoken pact that exists between women. She had determined the women are in charge, and that’s good enough for her.
There aren’t too many people eating. It’s after the breakfast crowd, and before the working people come in, for lunch. I silently thanked whoever had picked the time.
The girls were jabbering amongst themselves like nothing unusual was happening.
My deodorant had failed. Sweat was running down my legs. There was a reason why no one else was wearing hose. Every eye in the place was on me. I wanted to adjust my bra, which had slipped out of place, but I didn’t dare.
I need to use the bathroom. I haven’t gone since I first got out of bed. I’ll just have to hold it until I get home.
Home? My motel room? Was I really starting to think of it as home?
I can’t go to the men’s room. If I went in the ladies’ room, the hostess might call the cops. I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I could get arrested for using the ladies’ room. For all the legal research our office had done, we had never investigated that particular law.
Our waitress arrived with our beverages. She was all business, and thankfully didn’t seem overly interested, in me.
I hadn’t even thought about ordering. As I looked at the pictures of food, I could smell hot coffee, with bacon and eggs frying. I was salivating. The others went first. They all ordered a full breakfast with eggs, bacon, hash browns, and toast.
Before I could give my order, Debbie stepped in. “Didn’t you say you were starting a diet today, Jill? She’ll have a half a grapefruit with iced tea.”
“She -- could stand to lose a little weight,” the waitress said. Apparently, she had been added to those who were in on the joke.
What the heck is it with women? Does being a woman get you membership in a man-haters’ club? I was so upset by their blatant attempts to humiliate me that I didn’t think to argue with Debbie, about my food order.
“Cheers.” They tapped their plastic glasses together.
In a feeble attempt to be part of the crowd, I went along. They all used a straw to daintily sip their lemonade. Even though I also was using a straw, I sucked in more than half in one gulp. The tangy flavor awoke my slumbering taste buds. Abstinence had cleansed my palate. My mouth had grown fonder.
Really Red lipstick ringed my straw. Normally that would have been a big turn on. Given my situation, it was just one more sad reminder that my life was topsy-turvy. I glanced across the aisle at an elderly woman sitting with her husband. She openly gawked at me, while shaking her head, in disgust.
What? Do I have a big sign on me that says, MAN IN DRESS? I decided to keep my eyes down and concentrated on just getting through the nightmare. I jumped when the waitress slammed my grapefruit half, on the table.
“Enjoy,” the waitress demanded.
Does anyone ever really “enjoy” a grapefruit?
“Is there anything else I can get for you? Refills on your lemonade? Coffee?” She stopped, looked directly at me and then raised her voice. “Maybe you’d like a little estrogen?”
Debbie and Sarah broke up. Anne looked a little bewildered.
My shame is the pound of flesh these three Shylocks crave. I’m their personal Antonio -- or maybe Antoinette?
“Please bring her a little more lemonade,” Debbie said. “She seems awfully thirsty this morning. Is it that time of the month, Jill?”
I instantly regretted my comment about not being on the rag. Debbie never forgot, or missed -- anything.
“Well, we wouldn’t want our little Jill to be uncomfortable,” the waitress said.
“Jill, I’ll be right back with more lemonade. What a lovely name you have, Jiiilll.”
Do they have to drawl?
The waitress made several more visits. Despite my already uncomfortable bladder, I twice emptied both my iced tea and lemonade glasses. The waitress didn’t seem to have anything better to do than hang around our table. For the next thirty minutes it was, “How are you do’in, Jiilll?”, and, “Can I get you anything else, Jiilll?” or, “You know Jiilll, if you need a Midol, I’ll be happy to loan you one.”
Even though it was clear she knew I couldn’t possibly be having my period, I did my best to keep up appearances. There was always that chance that there was one person in the restaurant who didn’t know my true sex.
I smiled and thanked her for her kindness. She took one last shot at me.
“It’s always nice to get a REAL woman in here. Some people are sooo phony.”
I squirmed. The long morning without a bathroom break was becoming too much, for me.
Two uniformed policemen sat down in a booth close to us and ordered coffee.
Visions of jail dressed as I was floated through my head. What would become of me, in a holding tank? I tried to disappear. “Can we get out of here?” I hissed to Sarah.
“Oh. Are you ready to go?” Sarah smiled, as if there wasn’t a care in the world. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”
That just isn’t so. I had been done eating two minutes after my food had arrived. How damn long does she think it takes, to eat half a grapefruit? The truth was I had been forced to watch them enjoy every mouth-watering morsel of their eggs and bacon.
“Let’s go,” Anne said. I jumped up and make a dash for the door. In my haste, my heels pounded the floor with enough force so that my teeth chattered.
Sarah was right with me.
“Hold it, Jill,” Debbie called out, “The car’s locked and I’ve got the keys. Besides, we all need to fix our faces.”
All? Is she telling me I have to go into the ladies’ room with her? I can’t believe she wants to take that chance. Didn’t she see the police? “Oh, you go ahead,” I said. “I forgot my purse.” Hey! That was pretty good. I’m beginning to think on my heels.
Debbie finished paying the teller and then headed toward the restroom. She turned toward me and beckoned with a finger. Sarah poked me in the side. I was going into the ladies’ room -- whether I wanted to, or not.
I really did have to go. However, I reasoned I would be in big trouble -- if the police came in and my panties were down. I didn’t want to add indecent exposure, to any other possible charges.
I had learned in the fifth grade that the bladder is a distensible membranous sac. Several other boys and I had called each other “distensible membrane*ous sacs” for as long as it took for the thrill to wear off, which had been about a day. I needed my bladder to distend just a bit more.
The room had a bouquet of female usage. I was definitely in no man’s land. Luckily, we had it to ourselves.
They took turns going into the stalls. At least one of them was at my side, at all times. They were surprised when I declined to use the facilities. They primped, taking their time with their make-up, as they pushed errant hairs into place.
Omigawd! The mirror revealed to me what everyone else had been seeing. A man in a dress, with huge sweat rings under each arm. My make-up was horribly smeared and clumped. My hair had fallen out of my ponytail. My bra had slipped, so that my boobs were in a position unknown to any real woman. I did what I could to shove my chest into a locked and upright position. I had thought I could pass! What a joke! How could have I have been so self-deluded?
Leaving the ladies’ room, I was relieved to see that the policemen had not moved from their table.
As we went out the door, a mother and her kindergarten-age son were coming in. “MOM! Why is that man wearing a dress?” The boy’s eyes were stretched wide taking in the freak show that I had become.
The mother spoke while boring into me, with her eyes. “He’s doing it because some men aren’t really men at all. Some like to pretend they’re women.”
After I stumbled to the car, in a mental fog, I lashed out. “Are you happy? Does this make us even for what happened to you?” I was reasonably sure my suffering was over. Nothing they could make me do would be more embarrassing than what I had just gone through. They had to be satisfied.
“Jill,” Anne said softly, “We knew it wouldn’t be easy. This is all for the best. You’ve come a long way this morning. The rest should happen naturally, over time.”
“The rest? How cruel are you? I’ve been good to you. You aren’t being fair. I had once thought that you were my friends. Some friends -- you bitches turned out to be.”
Debbie slammed her car back into the parking spot she had just vacated and twisted around in her seat, to face me. “Have you forgotten how much the four of us have been through together? What have any of us ever done to be judged so harshly?” Her face softened. “We’re trying our best to help, can’t you see that? Jill, you’ve got a lot to learn. This morning was a start. Now sit back and shut up, or we’ll go back inside and see what those officers are having for breakfast.”
I was almost certain she didn’t mean that, but I sat back, in silence.
It would take us twenty minutes to get back to my motel. I would pee in my panties, if I didn’t immediately find a bathroom I could use. Any bathroom would do. “Debbie! I’ve got to use a bathroom.”
“Be quiet,” Debbie hissed. “You should have taken care of that in the restaurant.”
“Debbie, I’m not kidding,” I said. “I have to go. Don’t you think I want to get back, to the motel, and out of these clothes just as fast as I can? I really have to go - - right now.” My penis burned.
She yanked the car into the parking lot of a convenience store/gas station. Sarah was with me every step of the way, into the building. I saw the restroom sign toward the back of the store and made my way there with my legs held tightly together. The sign on the door said, “Attendant Has Key.” The image of me in the mirror at Perkins ran through my head. “Sarah, will you please get the key for me?”
“Not a fricking chance, Jill.” Sarah was all heart.
There were three people standing in line. It was all I could do not to scream at them to hurry. The attendant was making inane small talk with each customer. He was one of those creepy-looking guys with multi-colored hair. He had scraggly blond fuzz on his chin and at least seven or eight visible body piercings.
By the time I worked my way to the counter, there were four people in the line behind me. Despite the overwhelming need to use the bathroom the smell of fresh Krispy Kremes was orgasmic.
“Can I help you?” the Dante Hicks wannabe asked. He smirked, as he looked at me, for the first time.
“Pleease, cooould I get the key toooa the restrooom?” I used my best Scarlett O’Hara -- praying to pass just once.
“Sure, miss - - - TER, which restroom do you want to use? Men’s or Women’s?”
The king of the Quicky Mart was rewarded with a big laugh from the other patrons. “We usually don’t allow people to use the restrooms unless they buy something,” he said. “We have a sale on tampons. Would you like a box?”
“Look! I don’t have any money. I really have to go. I can’t hold it anymore. Either give me the key -- or go for the mop.” I had used my Jim voice.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” He held the key just out of my reach, waiting to get in one last zinger, “The restroom is unisex. Just like you, you freak. Don’t go whacking off in there. We’ve got security cameras, and we will prosecute.”
I raced to the restroom and stood up to the urinal. I tried pulling my dress up and everything else down. I didn’t have enough hands to hold everything out of the way. I gave up the struggle and sat down on the stool. I was sure I had sat down to urinate before, but I couldn’t quite remember when.
It wasn’t one of those accomplishments that you keep in your personal history. You just do what’s natural. Sitting down with my dress up and my panties down wasn’t natural.
The room was unusually dirty. It’s quite the palace that prick at the cash register is guarding.
Sarah was waiting outside the restroom door looking thoroughly disgusted.
The clerk looked up, as I returned the key, and nonchalantly said, “Stay the hell out of my store, pervert.”
I had every intention of doing just that.
All the hateful people; where do they all come from?
We rode the rest of the way back to my prison in silent thought. People demanded absolute simplicity in gender. The first question asked of a new parent usually is, “Is it a boy or girl?” We assume we are either one or the other, when in reality many of us are somewhere in between. Because of that prejudice, many people think a cross-dressing person is a fraud seeking attention, like Dennis Rodman. Or worse, they might think the cross-dresser is trying to trick a heterosexual man into homosexual sex.
I had been playing in an arena where I didn’t belong and was feeling the sting of the consequences.
The three of them followed me, to the door, of my room.
Debbie tapped me on the shoulder.
I spun around to face her as she spoke.
“It’s all about you isn’t it,” she said. “You were embarrassed. What about us? Do you think it was easy for us taking someone who looks like you out in public? Do you have any idea what we’re going through for you? You’re so insensitive. We’ll be back at seven to take you to dinner. Try to look and act a little better.”
I wallowed in self-righteous indignation. Everything she said was baffling. What the hell are they going through for me?
“Hey! Don’t bother,” I raged. “I’m sure I won’t be hungry. I can’t take any more humiliation. I would rather starve.” I’m not going to allow them to take my pride.
Sarah followed me into my room. “If you step even a stinking inch out of line, I’ll make sure the others follow through with all our threats.”
They left.
I saw myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. I looked as bad as I felt. I undressed about as quickly as I had many times over the years when I was disgusted and ashamed of myself, immediately after masturbation. My actions were as frantic as I had been on other occasions when I had been trying to avoid being caught.
I roughly washed off the make-up. I didn’t care what happened. I would NEVER wear women’s clothing, again. As I used a circular scrubbing motion my washcloth became a vortex of brown, red, and black. The once white fabric was now a mess. Just as my life had become.
They’ve cured me.
I spent the rest of that day fruitlessly trying to find a hole in their plan. There was no need to drag me out in public, again. I was done with women’s clothing.
But am I? In college, I had taken quite a few psychology courses. My favorite was behavioral psychology, in which we were taught to train rats in glass boxes called operant chambers. They were also known as Skinner boxes, named after B. F. Skinner. We attempted to change a rat’s behavior through punishment. The idea was to extinguish the unwanted behavior with negative stimuli -- electric shocks. The results proved that negative methods were unreliable and mostly futile. We achieved longer-lasting results through positive reinforcement.
I had read in a medical journal that cross-dressing was sometimes treated by aversion therapy. In my opinion, such treatment would fail dismally. I can’t imagine why psychologists thought it would work. What pain could they use for aversion that would exceed the pain of loneliness experienced by transvestites? If the self-inflicted pain of isolation didn’t extinguish the urge to cross-dress, what would?
Even though I had been utterly humiliated, I sensed I would eventually be back to cross-dressing -- after they were done with me.
The motel staff had cleaned my room. Evidently, the girls had fixed it so that the room would be cleaned only while I was out, indicating a long-term stay. How long was my torment to last? The contract had said two years.
That can’t possibly be. What more can they do to me? I would hold out as long as I could until I thought my way out. My mother used to call me “the thinker.” She said that I could always outthink those around me. I just need time.
The day played over and over in my mind. The waitress’s facetious remarks about me being a “real woman” stuck in my craw. She had been covered in heavy layers of make-up, false eyelashes, a push-up bra, and other obvious garments to hold in her girth. Yet, she had the nerve to make judgments as to what was real and what wasn’t.
Mostly I thought about what Debbie had said about doing everything they did out of friendship. Was that possible?
No friend could ever be that mean.
(In Part Three: After starving for several days, Jim finally agrees to get dressed again as Jill, and go with his three friends to another restaurant.)
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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Shannon’s Course
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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
After starving for several days, Jim finally agrees to get dressed again as Jill, and go to another restaurant with his friends.
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch
Chapter Three
Tough Guy Again
Chapter Three of Seven - Completed
The next morning at 10:00, Anne came to the door. “How ya doing, Jill?” She asked.
It appears she’s decided to use “Jill” even when we aren’t in public.
I had been lost in misery, on the bed, covered by a sheet. I answered her through the door, which remained closed and locked from my side. “It’s ‘Jim’ and you can go screw yourself.”
“Jill, please. We want to be your friends. If you want, we’ll come back at two to take you to lunch.”
“Buzz off.”
“Jill, be nice. From now on, we’ll ask you out to lunch once a day at 10:00. If you turn us down, we won’t be back for twenty-four hours.”
“Will you ask Debbie and Sarah something for me?”
“What’s that, Jill?”
“Would you please ask them -- What has six tits and no brain?”
“Six ...? Jill! That’s not funny. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
For the next three days, I remained naked. I had placed what needed to be on hangers and put everything else in drawers. I’m not going to wear any of those clothes.
For the first time in years, I had time to really think about my life.
***
I had been raised on a west Nebraska farm that was ten miles from Interstate 80, which was our link to the real world. I was the middle child in a large family, with four brothers and one sister. My sister and I were quite close. She was three years older.
One of my earliest memories was playing dress-up as a four-year-old. It was one of the games we played the most often. Also, when I was four, my mother gave me a doll for Christmas. She often gave dolls to boys and trucks to girls. I have no idea why she would do that. I didn’t like the doll and hated the idea that my mother gave it to me.
I thought nothing of being dressed as a witch one Halloween when I was ten. Looking back, I could only imagine what our neighbors thought of the weird boy, in that long black dress.
Boys in our community started working in the fields when they were six or seven. I had older brothers to do most of the fieldwork, so I didn’t drive tractor until I was nine or ten.
Before I started working all day in the fields, I spent most of my time playing with my sister and our cousins, who lived just half a mile from us. The cousin closest to me in age was a girl one year younger. She and my sister were my best friends.
It wasn’t unusual to spend entire afternoons with my sister and cousin writing and acting in plays. Gender was never of any importance. We mixed and matched as needed. Sometimes we were three young ladies living in the big city. Other times, I would be the father to two evil sons. Sometimes we wore costumes -- other times we didn’t. We could easily change gender through our actions and attitudes.
At times, I thought of myself as androgynous. I spent quiet moments in my sister’s closet staring at her dresses. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I inherently knew those feelings weren’t something to talk about. Once I was old enough to be busy working in the fields, the urge to put on a dress was rare. On rainy days, if I had been left to myself, I would sometimes try on a dress, but I would quickly take it off, disgusted and disappointed with myself for having done something so terribly wrong.
My brothers were five and six years older, and five and six years younger. If we got hurt playing, we toughed it out. Men don’t cry. Any boy seen crying was told by an adult to, “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” If he didn’t quit, he was either slapped or spanked.
Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons were spent visiting our relatives. They mostly lived on farms, within ten miles of ours. Ten miles was considered next door, on the plains. The men sat on the porch and drank beer while discussing farming and politics. The women were in the kitchen preparing meals, tending to infants, exchanging recipes, or planning future family get-togethers. The women didn’t yell at each other.
Over a million and a half people lived in Nebraska, about fifty-three percent were female and forty-seven percent were male. A more apt breakdown would be .oo6 % of the population were members of the Big Red football team. The rest of us cheered for them. We were all femmes compared to the gridiron heroes of Lincoln.
I was raised Catholic, so we had rules for everything. Some things were just taboo. You didn’t even discuss them. I reasoned that cross-dressing was one of those, as no one ever mentioned it. Nothing in the Baltimore Catechism seemed to cover cross-dressing unless it came under the general heading of “impure thoughts and deeds.”
Later in life, I ran across mention of cross-dressing in the Bible. In Deuteronomy, it says, “The woman shall not wear what pertains to a man, neither shall a man put on a woman’s garment, for all who do are an abomination unto the Lord thy God.” That passage seemed rather explicit and condemning. I failed to notice, until many years later, that other laws in that same book of the Bible stated that other things were also “an abomination” such as eating pork. A minister once told me, “That’s why they wrote a New Testament.”
As a young boy, I would daydream about actually becoming a girl. One of my chores on the farm was to watch the cattle, while they grazed on the unfenced areas of our farm. I made sure the cows were eating only those things that were good for their milk and kept them from our crops. It wasn’t hard, other than staying awake in the hot, dry summer air. There was ample time for daydreaming and fantasizing.
I wanted to sneak a dress out with me, into the fields, and wear it all day. It would have been great to have the wind blow the dress around my legs as I twirled around. I imagined myself as Julie Andrews dancing, in a high meadow, in the Austrian Alps.
“High on the hill was a lonely goatherd.” I never dared to become the Maid in a Pale Pink Coat. Lay dee odl lay ee odl oo.
Mom was the only mother in our community who worked outside the home. She was a teacher. Psychologists might suggest that I was simply expressing a form of nostalgia, for traditional gender roles. As I started wanting to dress as a girl at four, I’m not sure I had a clear distinction, at that time, about gender roles. So, I think that particular assumption would be fairly weak and unfounded.
Later in life, I read that seventy-five percent of all transvestites first want to dress in girl’s clothing, before they’re four. That would seem to point toward being born with a female spirit. Or it could be that babies, who don’t seem to react to gender until they’re about two, still haven’t fully learned how society wants them to differentiate.
Some psychologists have suggested that men who feel trapped in a low social-economic class will use cross-dressing to imaginatively compensate for the higher class that a gendered culture has promised him. Society says, “Do these manly things, and you will be rich and famous.” The logical conclusion would be that if you’re not rich and famous, and you have manly sexual characteristics, you must really be a woman.
By the age of four, I hadn’t developed the comparative skills to consider myself an abject failure. Further, as I continued to cross-dress after becoming an acknowledged success in business, I didn’t place much credence in gender-slumming theories.
Alone in my wretched motel room, I still had read very little about cross-dressing. There were only three pertinent books in the county library, and they were outdated. I had found information online stating that the potential for a cure was low. After that, I all but gave up trying to find more information. Who would want to read more? According to those books and websites -- I was a sexual deviant, with little hope of ever being anything else.
My favorite dress-up dress as a child had been a satin, party gown. It was a hand-me-down to my sister from a great-aunt. My sister never wore it. It was ankle length and had at least two-dozen brass buttons. I wore that dress several times, but never with any appropriate underwear or make-up. Wearing it made me feel at ease with myself and fully relaxed.
One daring day, I used some of my mother’s talcum powder. It was called “Evening in Paris” and came in a cobalt-blue can. I never forgot the enchanting smell, or the way it made me feel. I have been enthralled by feminine fragrances ever since.
Despite my urges, I had been determined to be all male. I tried to restrict thoughts of girlish ideas to those moments, just before sleeping.
Even though I wanted desperately to wake up one morning magically transformed into a girl, I never spoke of my feelings. Not with my sister, not with anyone.
Having been physically beaten for crying, or other minor transgressions, I could only imagine what would have happened had I been caught trying to be a girl.
Our community believed so strongly in sex-differentiation that they would humiliate anyone who tried to blur the lines. Despite all their efforts, I didn’t perceive any major differences between girls and boys.
The nun who taught my fifth-grade class noticed that I often played with the girls at recess. I didn’t think much of it, as it was normal for me to play with my sister and girl cousins. The nun announced, in front of my class, that either I would play with the boys, as I was supposed to, or she would get a dress for me to wear with ribbons for my hair. I was in awe of nuns, considering them to be saints in the making. Her threat confirmed what I had sensed from other adults. Wearing a dress should be humiliating.
There was an effeminate boy in our class. I wasn’t like him. I just wanted to play with the girls. No more than I wanted to play with the boys, but equally. The girls wanted to play sports with the boys, mainly softball or kickball. The nuns wouldn’t allow that. I thought the nuns’ concerns were stupid. “Discriminatory” would have been the word to use -- had it been in my vocabulary.
In junior high, I was severely criticized by the principal, in front of my homeroom, for being excitable. I had just been told we were getting new uniforms for our basketball team and was passing the information on to everyone I saw who was on the team. In the principal’s eyes, I was too emotional. That was one of the lessons that told me I would get along better with others, if I would suppress my emotions.
Later in life, cross-dressing helped me get along better with myself. The price for this self-therapy was fear, guilt, and lowered self-esteem - - which led to a vicious cycle. The lower my self-esteem, the more I needed the peace found in cross-dressing, which lowered my self-esteem. . ..
Our family moved into town when I was fourteen. I soon had lots of male friends.
In one of my classes, a nun gave a psychological test to the entire class that determined I was one of the most popular boys.
I played every sport I could, every minute I could. If I wasn’t shooting baskets, I was hitting a tennis ball, or playing football. A natural competitor, I lettered in four sports. I played fiercely, breaking several bones. My nose alone was broken four times. Although I never looked for fights, I never turned one down.
I liked girls a lot and spent as much time as I could with them. I dated and dated and dated. Girls were for dating. Boys were for friends.
Several times during high school, I thought how nice it would have been -- had I been born a girl. But I wasn’t a girl, and that was that.
In college, I rarely thought of being a girl. I continued to have lots of dates. I became increasingly analytical and introspective. And, I started to drink heavily.
Many times, I felt like an outsider, unable to participate fully in life. The loneliness was trying. For a time, alcohol masked my pain. Just before I met Jackie, I had gone through a period of promiscuity. I had sex with a lot of girls, some that I didn’t even know their names.
Jackie and I were married shortly after college. She became my best friend. Her family has been wonderful to me, especially her four brothers. She has no sisters.
The first cross-dressing incident between us occurred shortly after we were married. We were in our bed reading a book about sex. We took turns reading chapters, to each other. We tried to have an open discussion about each subject.
When we came to the topic of cross-dressing, Jackie asked if I would like to give it a try. I was, of course, very excited about the prospect. I hadn’t told Jackie about my childhood urges, as I thought that was all behind me. Or, at least, that I could control it.
She offered me a peach, tricot gown she had been given as a wedding shower gift.
I knew the minute I put it on that it felt right. We made love. From that day forward, we sporadically mixed sex with cross-dressing.
I had ordered quite a lot of clothes from mail order and online. I had become adept at applying make-up and enjoyed a variety of scents. I tended toward the romantic: White Shoulders, Chanel No. 5, Shalimar, or my absolute favorite, Heavenly.
Several times I tried to quit cross-dressing. It’s not that I’m a weak person. After smoking three packs of Marlboros a day for over six years, I quit smoking overnight. Wearing women’s clothing was an addiction for me. Jackie had innocently enabled that addiction. It had caused many tearful arguments and long periods of anger and silence.
Not that Jackie had been unreasonable. She lived in fear of the wrong person catching me. She was worried that our friends wouldn’t understand, if they became aware. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that her brothers would hate me. She was convinced that a neighbor, early in our marriage, knew about me.
Jackie lived in fear of the unknown consequences. Would I eventually go too far and lose my job? Would my lifestyle harm our boys? Was I a strong enough father figure? Would I become gay? Would I someday want to cross-dress fulltime?
I shared some of her fears, and believed some of them were valid, but we couldn’t talk through any of it. There was always a tension between us that would easily surface. She had told me that she no longer respected me. We lashed out at each other over nothing.
Jackie found many of the things that I loved doing, to be demeaning to women. She thought using make-up was a bother. She deemed unnaturally curly hair as being silly. According to her, long nails did nothing but impair her dexterity. She once had asked, “If that’s what you think a woman is, what am I?”
I had told her many times that the things I admired about feminine women were: their compassion, their increased communication skills, their heightened sense of esthetics, and their emotional adroitness.
She either didn’t hear or believe me, or both. She said she didn’t know where she fit in. She told me she wasn’t bi-sexual or a lesbian.
Fear has kept me from seeking counseling. . .fear and the absolute belief that my condition couldn’t be cured.
Some psychologists think part of the immense attraction of cross-dressing is the heightened sexual experience because of fear-driven sensations. That’s akin to those who use near asphyxiation to increase sexual pleasure. No one answer I had read came close to an explanation of cross-dressing’s addictive nature.
What an exquisite curse! Unless you’re a transvestite you will never understand the intense pleasure and deep shame involved. A cross-dresser’s mind will allow him to suppress cross-dressing for days, weeks, or months. Then a random thought, an aroma, a piece of cloth -- and all he can think of is satisfying his urge.
The girls had left me with no real choice. On the fifth day at 10:00, I finally agreed to be picked up at 4:00, for dinner. They obviously thought I needed more embarrassment. I knew I didn’t. I also knew it didn’t matter what I thought.
During those five days, I had done nothing but think and scheme. I had made and then rejected dozens of plans. Every time I came up with what appeared to be a good idea, I eventually found a hole in it. I had to do better with my female illusion. If I could somehow pass -- then their plan to shame me would cease being fun for them.
I dressed in a flared skirt and peasant blouse. The skirt came to mid-knee. The blouse was a dusty orange that gathered at the waist. It had long sleeves and was made of tricot. The cotton skirt was eggshell flecked with gold and brown. I selected a pair of three-inch white heels with taupe pantyhose.
Despite what you have seen in the movies, heels are not all that hard to walk in. Hollywood directors should walk a mile in my heels, before making their next gender-bender movie.
The day was much cooler, so I could wear pantyhose without worry about perspiration. I took greater care in shaving and used even more foundation. I wasn’t beautiful, but no one would see my beard. I bathed in Shalimar bath salts. I love Shalimar. It’s an old scent and one of my faves.
My legs were covered with stubble, so I had to shave them again. I did my face first to conserve blades. Since the blouse was cut lower than what I had worn the first day, I was also forced to shave my chest. As I was doing my chest, I realized any body hair was a problem. I shaved everywhere I could reach, leaving only my pubic hair.
My mind was adrift, slipping from topic to topic, and drawing no conclusions. I want out, but how and to where? I’m so hungry I’ve forgotten how horny I am.
The Shalimar scent drove me nuts. I needed sexual relief and had no suitable way to get it. Before I got dressed, I used Shalimar Body Lotion on every part of my body except that one rigid member that was begging to be massaged.
I matched my make-up to the blouse, using a soft orange tint for eye shadow and Avon Shimmery lipstick. My foundation was slightly darker than what I had used five days before, giving me a healthy-looking “tan.” When I pulled back my hair, I took care to use a tight scrunchie, before tying it with a scarf that matched my blouse. There would be no flyaway hair for me.
In the mirror, I saw Amy Poehler. Hopefully, everyone else would see Marie - and not her ex, Will Arnett - decked out in orange. Before doing my nails, I sprayed Shalimar Cologne over my body. I was hard as granite. However, I wouldn’t put on a show for the cameras.
I started doing my nails in tangerine an hour before they were due to arrive. I put on three coats. Each one was carefully dried before I applied the next. My nails matched my lips, eye shadow, and the powder I used for a blush. I enjoyed buying cosmetics and my make-up kit was well-stocked.
I was wearing a seashell necklace that bobbed when I spoke. Other than my wedding band, I wore no other jewelry.
They arrived precisely at 4:00.
I don’t need a clock, with three anal-retentives for friends. I had just finished washing errant make-up from my hands when they knocked. I walked to the door drying my hands with a towel.
“Hi, Jill, how’s it going?”
How is it that someone as friendly as Anne, with that body, has managed not to have a handful of babies? I thought.
“I’m okay, Anne,” I said. “Don’t I look okay?”
“You look Maaarvvelouss,” Billy Crystal / Debbie said.
My mind was thinking, screw you, but my lips said, “Thank you, Debbie. I really tried to do much better today. Just let me get my purse, and I’ll be right with you.” I had learned from our first “miss-adventure” that my face might need a touch up after our meal.
“Jill, is that water running?” Anne asked.
I had left the tap on and then walked away. It shook my confidence to realize how preoccupied I had become.
They chatted on our way to the restaurant, with not one word about work, the stock market, or world affairs.
Instead of steering the conversation to my normal topics, I hungrily took in everything they said about my family, their families, or the sales at the local stores. I told myself that I was lonely and would have listened to them read the label from a tomato soup can. The truth was I ached for news of Jackie and the boys.
Sartre said, “If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.” Given my problems, and the way I whined to myself, I had everything I could do to put up with me.
When I finally joined their conversation, I used a muted Scarlett O’Hara voice. My Tara accent had drawn too much attention to me. I had softened my voice and raised it half an octave above my normal range. To my ears, my voice seemed to blend with theirs.
As we pulled into the lot at TGI FRIDAY’S, I realized I was scared stiff. Yes, I was stiff - deep under all the clothing. That wasn’t the problem. My legs didn’t want to move. My mind raced with images, of an encore, of the last outing.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “You can starve me to death. I can’t go in.”
Debbie, who again was driving, looked at me in the rear-view mirror. “Jill, you agreed to do exactly what we tell you to do. We’ve been patient with you. It’s time for you to cooperate. Either you get out of the car, or I’m going to drive over to the Federal Court House. The judge will enforce our contract.”
Somehow, I found a way to slide out of the car. Sarah half carried / half pushed me toward the restaurant door. The interior was a little darker than Perkins. I tried to be one of the girls and then relaxed a bit when we got to our table, without incident.
I hadn’t had any water since noon. I didn’t order iced tea or lemonade. I sipped my water with the salad Debbie forced me to order. I wasn’t going to be put in a tight spot over the ladies’ room.
We might have made it through the lunch unnoticed had we not been sitting on those damned stools. Their seats were about thirty inches off the ground.
The girls even appeared to have trouble perching on them.
If I didn’t make a conscientious effort, my legs spread naturally about a foot and a half apart at the knees. By the end of our lunch, I had put on quite a show for a table of men sitting three tables away from us.
They were young professionals -- the kind I normally ate up and spit out. Just before we finished, one of them approached our table and whispered in my ear.
“It took us about ten minutes to figure you out. Sitting with your friends -- you almost look like a real woman. My friends are paying me to come over here, and embarrass you, but I’m really here to tell you that I find you interesting. If you would like to go out sometime, let me know.” He pressed a note into my hand.
For the first time, I looked in his eyes. He was blushing from the embarrassment that he was trying to save me from experiencing. Flustered by the gratitude I felt, I bowed my head and slipped his note into my purse.
“My buddies expect me to be really rude to you,” he continued, as I froze, afraid to say anything. “If you don’t get up, and leave the restaurant immediately, I’m going to be forced to create a scene and you’re going to be the star. I hate to do this, but if I hadn’t come over here someone else would’ve. That person won’t give you a chance to leave.”
“Sarah, let’s go,” I said. I dragged her out to the parking lot. Anne and Debbie stayed behind to take care of the bill, with what I assumed was my credit card.
“Whoa there, Jill,” Sarah said, once we had cleared the restaurant’s front door. “Remember who’s in charge here.”
“He was going to make trouble.”
“So what?” Sarah asked. “This whole futzing thing is trouble. When I went to the ladies’ room a few minutes ago, the manager grabbed me. We aren’t welcome here, ever again. This isn’t any fun for any of us.”
“If you didn’t want trouble,” I said. “You shouldn’t have forced me to come here dressed like I am. It’s your own damned fault for being a bitch.”
Debbie and Anne sauntered across the parking lot with big smiles, on their faces.
“Jill, you really did swell.” Anne looked extremely pleased.
“I’m sorry to pop your bubble,” Sarah said, “but the whole freaking place read Jill like a book. I’m tired of this bull. Let’s file the papers and be done with it. He ... she’s never going to change. She’ll always be an asshole.”
“That’s not fair, Sarah.” Unexpectedly, Debbie came to my defense.
Maybe they’re trying to do a good cop/bad cop thing.
“I still think our plan can work,” Debbie continued. “She’s going into the hospital tomorrow morning, so we’ve got a few days to think things over. As long as she’s sticking to her part of the bargain, we should stick to ours.”
Anne and Sarah nodded.
“Hospital?” I asked.
“Yep. . .ya airhead – ‘hospital.’”
“Airhead” was a name that I had frequently applied to Anne.
She was turning the tables on me. “Remember - - you’re getting a nose-job.”
I had forgotten.
When they dropped me off at the motel, Anne said, “Don’t forget you can’t eat anything after ten. Oops! I guess I’m the airhead. You don’t have any food, do you? I’m sorry.”
I could tell by the look on her face that she truly was sorry for what she had said.
She went on, touching my hand -- and smiling. “Look, Jill. I’ll stop by later tonight. We can talk.”
***
Anne did come back to talk.
I had decided it was foolish to be naked, all the time, in my room. To stay warm, I was dressed in a long, white Celida nightgown, made of soft cotton with long sleeves and lots of frilly details. I looked like Meg Ryan, in the closet, in Sleepless in Seattle. Only, I was out of the closet in Omaha. I also was wearing my fluffy clog slippers.
I had been thinking all evening about the need for friends. As angry as I was at the situation, remorse had already settled in for some of the things that I had said, in the past, to Anne, Sarah, and Debbie.
Anne had brought a pamphlet about the hospital, to let me know what to expect, and how to prepare. It outlined the hospital’s rules. The hospital had ten beds in private rooms.
At least, I won’t have to enter a ward, in a dress.
I voiced my biggest concern. “Anne, when I wake up in the hospital, will I have a vagina?”
She blushed. “Of course, you won’t. Nothing is going to happen to you that you don’t want to happen.”
“I believe you. But can I trust Sarah and Debbie?”
“Jill, Honey, the goal of everyone involved is to be supportive and sensitive. We want to help you through a process of discovery and resolution. What we’re doing for you and with you is the best option available. You can afford private help, which is good because there are almost no social services for transgendered people. Many misguided people think people with gender disorientation are mentally ill and need to be cured. The politics involved has become very mean-spirited.”
“Are you trying to cure me?” I asked, willing for the moment to let her description of me as “transgendered” stand. I don’t want to start an argument. I have always liked Anne the most.
“Nope. We’re no longer that misinformed. We know enough to be helping you in, a different direction. We want to assist you, in ending your anxiety.”
“I’m scared.” Despite considerable effort not to, I wept. At first, the tears were a surprise. Once they became a comfort, my emotional gates opened. I told her of my fear of being physically beaten, if they made me go out in public again dressed as a woman. Fear of violence is part of a cross-dresser’s life.
Some time ago, Brandon Teena had been a Nebraska “boy” who was raped. “He” tried to get help from the police. The police interrogated “him” in a very hurtful manner calling into question “his” most private thoughts and actions, because “he” anatomically was a girl. Even though the assailants each said the other had committed the rape, the police released both of them. Once the boys that raped him were freed, they found him and then murdered him. The town had been successfully sued. Reflective of society’s bias against the transgendered, the award was only sixteen thousand dollars. That incident occurred less than two hundred miles from Omaha.
“I’m fearful too,” Anne said. “Bad things happened to me. Things you aren’t ready to understand. I’m dealing with my problems and you need to deal with yours. For now, you need to know that nothing could ever make any of us hurt you -- or allow you to be hurt. You can count on that.”
I fell asleep thinking about having my nose fixed. It seemed like a good idea, no matter what.
***
I was dressed in a simple tan suit with a white silk blouse when they came for me at 10:00 the next morning. I had used a Passion Pink color combination for my nails, lips, blusher, and eye shadow. My shoes were British-tan leather flats with auburn pantyhose. I had a matching shoulder bag to carry my essentials. The skirt seemed unusually large, but I belted it tightly.
I had pulled my hair back into a bun. My gold loop earrings were matched with a simple gold heart on a gold chain necklace. The hospital literature had requested that I not use any scent.
When we arrived, I was once again afraid to get out of the car. I was anxious about the nurses and aides. They know my gender. I can’t leave the hospital, for at least four days. How can I survive the kind of continual degradation they might put me through?
I was met at the door by an orderly with a wheelchair. He had brown hair and no visible body piercings. There was no check-in process. It was “Jill this” and “Jill that.” But not in the nasty way the waitress had said it. Finally, I thought, I got my make-up right. I was still worried sick about what would happen when they gave me my first sponge bath.
My room was like the bedroom of a private home. The print hanging on the wall facing my bed was Renoir’s “The Little Girl with the Watering Can.” The orderly asked me to change into a hospital gown. He said that everyone had to wear a gown, until after her surgery was complete. After he left the room, I slipped on the gown and removed my make-up with cold cream.
Since the gown was unisex, it wasn’t fully feminine. I relished the thought of having that little triumph over the girls.
A nurse checked my pulse and blood pressure, hooked me to an IV, and weighed me.
I’m down to 145 pounds!
Debbie and Anne were with me until I went into surgery. I woke four hours later, with my face covered with gauze. Sarah was sitting by my bed. I noticed immediately that I was wearing one of my most ornate nighties.
“We thought you’d be more comfortable in something of your own.”
I’m sure she’s sincere.
Actually, my nightie was nicer than having that annoying draft you get in a hospital gown.
My nails had been polished.
“I thought you might like a little less color -- since you can’t wear make-up for a few days,” Sarah said. She had shaped my lengthy nails, removed the Passion Pink polish, and replaced it with light beige. “I fixed you up with three coats of Beach Beige and two coats of clear. You can do some major league keyboarding in those, without chipping.”
I looked at a proud Sarah through the bandages and felt very close to her. She really does care about me. “Thank you,” I said. That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen Sarah do.
I was tired and my face ached. Sarah gave me a sip of water.
I closed my eyes to sleep. Before I dozed off, I put a well-polished finger between my legs to make sure I was all there. Sure enough, it was saluting the world. Given my immense relief at that discovery, I was absolutely certain I never wanted to have sex reassignment surgery.
Some psychologists have stated that transvestites are solving their castration anxieties by becoming fake women. It was ironic that my cross-dressing had heightened my fears.
During the next four days, everyone in the hospital treated me with great respect. The hospital specialized in sex reassignment surgery and other cosmetic procedures for transgendered people. There were no cross-dresser haters on their staff.
Even so, each time someone new came into my room -- I was embarrassed by the attire the girls had brought for me. I had purchased almost all my nightgowns for - fore? - play. I would have preferred my Meg Ryan nightie.
The hospital staff treated me as Jill. I forgot about what I was wearing. When my clothing didn’t matter to other people, they didn’t matter to me. I was getting back some of the confidence I had lost at Perkins, TGI FRIDAY’S, and that convenience store.
Sarah, Debbie, and Anne stayed by me -- at least, one at a time -- twenty-four hours a day. I had thought I might have a moment alone. But it was not to be. They followed me everywhere. It was just like being on-camera, back in the motel.
On the second day, the doctor said that it would be fine if I used a very minimal amount of scent. Apparently, they didn’t have any current patients or staff with allergies. My heart went out to those transsexuals who couldn’t wear perfume at a time when they needed all the femininity they could muster.
“Minimal perfume is okay,” Anne said. “Less is more.”
Really. That was the first time I’ve heard that.
We tried it, and I liked it.
Layering your scent must be a marketing ploy the cosmetic corporations use to sell more products. I liked the lighter scent, but I didn’t get sexually aroused. In fact, I was sexually aroused much less often than normal while I stayed in the hospital.
The hospital kept me on a low-intake diet. I lost an additional six pounds. The doctor told me I was in great physical condition. She said I was approaching my proper weight. With all of the fasting, came clarity of thought. I could see how I had been hurting those around me.
The time I had spent in isolation had been like a retreat, to renew my spiritual being through reflective thought.
I realized I had reached an emotional bottom and needed the process that Anne, Debbie, and Sarah had devised. Maybe they are The Freudettes?
While reading magazines in the patients’ lounge with Debbie, a middle-aged woman struck up a conversation with us. She looked faintly like Eddie Redmayne in The Danish Girl. In a way, she was quite lovely. It probably was her confidence showing through. She was articulate, intelligent, and composed. We talked about everything except her reasons for having had the surgery. . .surgery that she had called “final.”
She was a gynecologist and didn’t appear to be a person who would make a horrible mistake. After she left us to go back to her room, Debbie and I speculated about what would happen to her practice. We wondered if her old clinic would welcome her back, with open arms.
We were actually talking about me, and both of us knew it. We concluded that “she” had a fair chance, of a good future.
I could have had my nose fixed in any one of a dozen Omaha hospitals. My friends had picked this one so I wouldn’t be embarrassed and so I could interact with others like me.
On the fourth day, the doctor removed the bandages, and held a hand mirror for my inspection. Even though there was considerable swelling, the nose she showed me seemed to be too small for my face. My doctor, a gorgeous woman whose name was Christine said, “You had better like it --- I used my own nose as the model.”
I compared her nose to the one in the mirror. They’ve given me a feminine nose!
“Jiillll…Sheee’s kiiidding yooou,” Debbie said. “Jackie gave us pictures of you when you were six. Christine took your nose back to its original shape. If it’s feminine, that’s the way it was meant to be.” Debbie was drawling again, but she was doing it in a way that made me feel comfortable.
I had to make the trip back to the motel, in one of Debbie’s robes because nothing I owned fit me. Even the outfit I had worn to the hospital had become ridiculously huge. For the next week, as I convalesced in my room, I wore nothing but Debbie’s robe and some of my underwear - which also hung on me. They brought me simple salads and non-fat meals twice a day.
***
Anne celebrated my swelling abating by bringing me a Cobb salad, without the chicken. Ten days had passed since I had left the hospital.
“I’m taking the day off tomorrow, to go shopping, with Sarah and you,” Anne said.
“Shopping? Shopping for what?”
“Well, Honey. . .with your weight loss you need just about everything -- and I’m the shop ‘til you drop kid. You’re a Skinny-Minnie.”
“Anne, I have nothing to wear, into the stores.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” She grinned.
Even my Meg Ryan nightie had become too big. Someone had let the air out of me. How could have I lost so much weight, without noticing?
Anne sat in the chair as my eyelids fluttered from fatigue. I was stretched out on my bed chirping with Anne -- about nothing. I hardly felt it when she tucked me in and gently kissed my forehead. As I fell asleep, I realized how much I liked Sarah, Debbie, and her. They really were great friends. In my high school Latin class, we had learned that amica – friend -- is a feminine noun.
Maybe women make the best friends? They keep calling me their friend.
Maybe friends make the best women?
I wasn’t all that anxious about the future. I had a feeling that somehow things would work out.
***
At 10:00 the next morning, Anne and Sarah came to the door. Anne brought me a new pair of size six elastic panties and a size large woman’s pink sweat-suit. She also gave me a pair of white cotton canvas sneakers with white sweat-socks.
“Anne, if I can’t pass as a woman in a dress, how will I ever pass in this outfit?” I asked.
“Honey, you’ll look great. Let me help you with your make-up and let’s see what happens. I’ll bet you a steak dinner that no one will see you as anything but female. Just so it’s a real bet - - if I’m right, will you get your ears pierced? Having pierced ears is something I think you would really like. You would look cute.”
“It’s a bet. I’m going to hold you to buying me that steak, Anne.” Red meat would help ease the pain of another inevitable public humiliation.
After tying my shoulder-length hair into pigtails with scrunchies, Anne gave my face a light covering with a concealer called Derma Blend. She then dotted my face with a small amount of foundation and wiped it around with something that looked like a mini sponge. She was careful to cover the remaining bruises from the surgery -- working gingerly so as not to hurt me. She brushed a teensy amount of light-brown shadow over my eyes, and added a hint of blush, some fixing powder, a dab of dark red lipstick and then she was done.
I looked in the mirror and saw my own face. “Anne, I can’t go out like this. That’s me. I’m not even wearing lip gloss.”
“I’m not done,” she said, as she reached in her pocket and produced a tiny set of clip-on earrings. They were so small they looked like studs. “Now, you’re ready.”
I trust Anne. If she says I’m ready, I am. I hope. “I’m concerned about my nails. They’re still done in the beige Sarah had painted on, in the hospital. They don’t even match my lips.”
“They look great,” Sarah said, “especially for shopping on a weekday.”
Who am I to argue with a nail expert?
Following the less-is-more rule, I sprayed a little White Shoulders in the air and barely allowed the mist to reach me.
Off we went to Crossroads Mall. On the way, we chatted our way into a state of girlishness.
My mind was on the clothes I needed to find. I gave no thought to what I was “trying” to be.
The first place we went to was the undergarment department to look for bras. With my weight loss, I had become a 36-something.
Anne and Sarah told me I should actively pick out the clothing I needed. They were there as advisors. They said it would look very suspicious if a woman my age allowed two other women to dress her.
I decided which bras to buy.
They bought a few things for themselves, to maintain our cover.
Every time I took a C-cup -- Sarah or Anne exchanged it for a B.
When we went to the dressing room Anne produced a small box she had been carrying in her large purse. It contained a set of prosthetic breasts. The box’s label said, “Olga’s Breast Enhancers.” They were teardrop-shaped and each had a raised nipple. They were my skin color and designed to be attached to my chest with an adhesive.
“When we get back to the motel,” Sarah said, “you can decide if you want to use the adhesive that’s in the box. For now, you can just put them, in the cups, of this bra.”
Anne gushed over the curves produced by the “enhancers.”
I can’t believe a 36B looks so right. I had always tried to be a 38C. Who would have thought smaller breasts would look more feminine?
We then spent nearly an hour selecting panties and other necessary foundation garments.
I picked out some sleepwear.
Anne found another nightie for me.
So did Sarah.
They taught me to evaluate clothing for their comfort and utility, as well as the way they made me feel. They helped me buy tights, stockings, and pantyhose.
One of the items we bought was a four-pad girdle, to provide a little more shape. I wore it out of the store. Even in my sweatsuit, I could see a new me as I looked at my reflection in the store windows.
We stowed our bags in the car.
It’s a good thing I’m wearing an elastic panty as my penis is becoming engorged. I haven’t had sex in almost four weeks. My semen is getting to the point of date expiration. There had been no visits lately from my old friend Rosie Palm. Surprisingly, my hard-ons are becoming less frequent.
We ate a small lunch and then continued to shop. I used the ladies’ room in the mall after Sarah agreed to make sure no one was in it, before I went in.
Anne stood guard at the door, so no one else would enter while I used it.
Sarah told me I needed at least ten dresses and about the same number of skirts and tops. Quick measurements by Anne before we left my motel room had indicated that I had dropped from a size 18 to a 12.
Even with Anne and Sarah’s considerable help, we only found three dresses we liked, plus two skirts and four tops.
I tried on at least ten items for every one we bought. Extensive shopping was entirely new, to me.
When I had shopped for Jim, I had set world records for the lowest elapsed time. I didn’t even take the time to try things on. Slam bam - thank you, sir.
Shopping with Sarah and Anne was a journey versus the destination I had always considered it to be.
I was surprised at Sarah’s well-developed fashion sense, as she normally wore sweatshirts and jeans to work. She surprised me more and more as the day went on.
All new to me was the tactile pleasure of shopping for fine fabrics. Each dress, skirt, or blouse had a feel of its own. The palette of feminine colors made the earth tones of the men’s department seem unbearably limited.
I could have shopped forever. I was enjoying the way I looked after all the weight loss. I had forgotten about trying to pass as a woman and was having a good time with Anne and Sarah.
We laughed, giggled, and snorted the day away.
After finding just the right shoes, for a couple of my new outfits, we carried our loot to the car. I was about to climb in when Anne said, “Jill, we have to go to one more store.”
“It’s nearly 5:00. You’re tired. Sarah’s tired. We had a great day. I feel great. Let’s quit while we’re ahead. Hey! Did you notice? Not one person read me.”
“That’s just the point,” Anne said. “No one read you. We have to go somewhere to have your ears pierced.”
“Forget about it. Let’s go back to my place. I’ll get dressed in that light-beige skirt and burgundy blouse and we can go get a salad somewhere.” Sarah and Debbie look upset. I must have done something wrong, again.
“Jill,” Anne said. “We made a bet. You made it through the day as a female and no one was the wiser. Now you have to get your ears pierced.”
“That just ain’t going to happen, girls. If I were to get my ears pierced, that would be permanent. When you’re done doing whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going back to work as Jim, and, Jim’s ears will not be pierced.”
“You. . .! Have the past few days been a sham? We thought you had changed.” Anne had lost all the bonhomie that had carried the day. “After all we’ve been through, I thought we could trust you.”
“Let’s take Jill in, and have her ears pierced whether she likes it or not,” Sarah said. “She still has to do what we tell her.”
“No. If we do that, we’ll be as bad as her.” Anne was visibly troubled. “Let’s just take her back to her place. We should talk it over with. . .ahh. . .Debbie. One thing I know for sure, there’s one little piggy in Omaha that isn’t going to get any supper.”
Tough. So -- I'll miss a meal. I won’t starve.
I don’t want to let Anne down. I’ve never understood people with body piercings or tattoos. It goes against my grain.
I had seen a show on TV about transvestites. A psychologist they interviewed suggested that transvestites were engaged in self-destruction by paying a gender penalty. He said that they punished themselves for some sub-conscious wrong by voluntarily giving up the superior status of a male.
I don’t want to permanently give up my male status.
I don’t understand why Anne turned on me. Why does someone as nice as her want to publicly humiliate me by piercing my ears? Up until the last several minutes, it had been a great day.
Over the years, people had mistakenly addressed me as “Miss,” both over the phone and in person. When I wanted to pass so desperately at Perkins and TGI FRIDAY’S -- I had failed. When I gave passing no thought -- when I wasn’t even trying -- I had no trouble.
Trying to be a woman is so hard.
Being a woman seems naturally easy.
(In Chapter Three, Jill refused to have her ears pierced to pay off on a bet with Anne. In Chapter Four, we will discover that her punishment will be to go out to dinner with a man.)
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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Jill refused to have her ears pierced to pay off on a bet with Anne; her punishment will be to go out to dinner with a man.
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch
Chapter Four
Judgment at Ak Sar Ben
The next morning Debbie, Sarah, and Anne were in my face.
I had dressed in one of my new outfits. I had even used the adhesive to attach my new breasts. I wasn’t sure how long the adhesive would hold -- and we didn’t have the solvent to take them off. They were impressed with my new look -- but were adamant that I needed to pay off, on my wager.
I was just as dug in.
We weren’t doing a very good job of communicating, with each other.
Debbie took the release I had signed out of her purse. She showed me where I had agreed to be punished, if I didn’t do what they demanded. She reminded me that they could demand that I get my ears pierced, even if there hadn’t been a bet.
Anne didn’t want to force me. She said I should only have them pierced, if I really, really wanted to. She couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want to do something that was so much fun. She said I would look cute, with all the neat earrings made for pierced ears.
Sarah looked like she wanted to rip my head off -- but said nothing.
It looked like a stalemate.
The moment the bickering died down, my stomach growled.
“Sounds like someone could use a little snack,” Debbie said. “I think your body wants a nice meal -- and we can arrange that.”
Debbie reached into her purse again and produced a small piece of paper. “I’ve been trying to decide what to do with this and now I think I have the answer. When you were asleep in the hospital, I went through your purse. I was checking to see what cosmetics you needed for the trip home. I was amused to find this name and phone number. Then I remembered the adorable guy at TGI FRIDAY’S. I had seen him give you something. During all the commotion that followed, asking what he gave you had slipped my mind. Now I see that it was all fate.”
I don’t like the evil smirk on Debbie’s face.
“Your punishment for not getting your ears pierced will be to eat that steak that Anne bet,” Debbie said. “Your date for dinner will be John Schultz, at 531- 845-3927.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I have no interest in dating men. It would be terrible. He knows I’m not a woman.”
“If you weren’t interested, why did you keep his phone number?” Sarah asked.
“I. . .ah. . .don’t know,” I admitted begrudgingly
.
“Think about it, Jill,” Debbie said. “He isn’t going to let on to anyone he’s dating a man. All that will happen is -- you’ll get a free meal. If you don’t go on the date, we will have no choice but to take you before the judge.”
Sarah and Anne both nodded their heads – Sarah much more vigorously.
“Does he really want to go out with me?” I asked. “He did try to be nice at the restaurant. I guess if I have to go out with someone, he would be okay.”
“Okay? He’s a stud muffin,” Sarah said, with a tinge of jealousy, in her voice.
“He doesn’t look like he would be hard up, for dates,” Anne said. “Are you sure he’ll go out with Jill?”
Even though I had no interest in traipsing around Omaha, with a “stud muffin.” I was unexpectedly miffed that Anne didn’t think I was good enough for him.
“I’ll take care of that,” Debbie said. “We’ll need a few new pictures of you, Jill. I’ll get my camera from the car. You can put on a fashion show for us with your new outfits. I would like to see them, anyhow. John will be impressed by the pictures when I meet with him tomorrow morning.”
“How can you be so sure that he’ll meet with you, Debbie?” Anne asked.
“Because I’ve already talked to him,” Debbie said. “If he likes what he sees in the pictures, which he will, you’ll have a date fifteen days from now. Your bruises will be totally unnoticeable by then.”
“I’ll go on the date,” I said, “if I don’t have to have my ears pierced. But I’ll need help. I can’t go out to dinner, with my hair in a ponytail or pigtails.”
“Oh, we’re going to help you,” Debbie said. She had a malicious grin on her face. “We have just the French waitress outfit, for you to wear.”
I turned beet red. They’re going to do it again. This is going to be the worst yet.
“I’m kidding,” Debbie said, grinning. “You can wear anything, from your wardrobe, you think will be appropriate. We’ll help you as much as we can.”
Anne gave me a hug, to let me know our friendship was healed.
I returned her hug with less enthusiasm than I might have, before she started being such a stickler about the piercing thing.
I had already decided which of my outfits I would wear. It was a Brooks Brother’s navy chemise dress with a simple gold belt. The hem came to mid-knee. It had a jewel neck and bust darts. I would wear elegant matching dress pumps with three-inch heels. John was tall — maybe 6’3” or 6’4.” There would be no problem with our relative heights.
Then again, maybe I’ll wear the lavender silk shirtdress. . .. No, the chemise. . .no doubt the chemise.
For the first time in my life, I would also wear stockings. I would use a long-line girdle to help draw my waist in to twenty-four inches. I would wear a cameo necklace -- and of course. . .my wedding band.
My goal was to look elegant, and if at all possible - - - unattainable. I don’t want to look sexy, in the least. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.
Debbie was watching me daydream, as Sarah and Anne were going through my wardrobe, and debating what I should wear.
“I think it’s time for you to have the benefit of your first visit to a salon,” Debbie said. “I’ve already set an appointment for you, for five hours, before your date. You’ll have your hair done, your body waxed, a manicure, and pedicure. They’ll do your make-up. Sarah is going to be with you the entire time. She will take you directly to court -- should you decide to back out.”
“We’ve brought you a present, from your office,” Sarah said. “It’s your laptop. We’ve fixed it so you can access the internet. We’ve prepared a list of sites that will be helpful. Several of the sites are tutorials covering feminine body language and vocabulary. There are sites about other things that might be helpful, but you’ll have to decide which to use. We’ve set your modem for ‘incoming’ only. Although you can surf the net, you will not be able to e-mail or send instant messages to anyone.”
***
Debbie met with John, and a date was set. We were going to dinner at The French Café, on Howard Street.
They might have picked the restaurant to remind me of how I had embarrassed them.
For the next two weeks, I surfed the net with amazement. I had barely tried the net before to learn about people like me. Over the years, I had craved good information about transvestites. I had guiltily read the cryptic descriptions in dictionaries, encyclopedias, and medical journals. I had read everything the local libraries had to offer, which was almost nothing.
I had even gone into a Barnes and Noble looking for books by an author I had heard about, on television. I couldn’t find anything, so I had asked for help. I had figured I would be safe asking for a book by the author’s name. The young man who waited on me said, “Oh, you want the book about transvestites.”
He spent several horribly awkward minutes trying to help me find the book, which turned out to be out of stock. He put in an order, but I never went back for it.
The internet had information far beyond anything I had found, in the public library. Most revealing to me was a fact I kept seeing that stated at least one percent of the male population is transgendered. I had been convinced that I was a freak. The more I read, the less guilty I felt.
What I read validated there is no sure cure for transvestism, as I had expected, from applying what I had learned training rats in college. I needed to make cross-dressing fit into my life, without hurting anyone. One of the sites spoke of treating patients who wanted to decrease their desire to cross-dress by medicating them with buspirone or fluoxetine to dampen their mental acuity. I couldn’t imagine taking that course of action.
Some people go through life with no seasoning on their mashed potatoes. I’m a salt and pepper person.
I was a sponge absorbing everything I read. Debbie dropped off a series of books. One by Virginia Prince was a little dated, but very comforting. There was so much to learn.
One informative site said the name for cross-dresser hating is “transphobia.” That gives me a name for the convenience store clerk that I can use in mixed company. Come to think of it – I’m my own “mixed” company.
Just the sheer volume of information available was encouraging. Several times, I saw estimates of over three million male transvestites in the United States. Given the plethora of goods and services sold to cross-dressers, on online sites, it would appear there were lots of ready buyers.
It would be interesting to know how they went about researching the numbers. According to the estimates, seventy-five percent of all transvestites are married with children. Most suffer from an intense fear of discovery. About half have told no one. If half have told no one, how accurate can the estimates be?
The vocabulary itself was extensive. I had heard of transvestites and transsexuals. Words and terms like: femaling, gender migration, gender blending, and transgenderist were new to me, but very important to my new understanding of myself.
One site provided a description of feminine walking. I shortened my stride by about a third, transferred the weight of my body to the inner balls of my feet, and lightened my heel-strike. I struggled to have my footprints in almost a straight line, by walking for hours, toward the mirror, in my room. A fluid motion soon replaced my gait. The hardest part for me was keeping my legs together. It was also difficult to keep my head high, arms relaxed, and fingers curled to my side. In a very short time, it became natural. It was thrilling to watch my skirts and blouses move naturally.
As I walked, I threw my 36B chest forward, pulled in my stomach muscles and tightened my bottom. My arms were held loosely at my side. While swinging my legs from my hips, I did my best to hold my pelvic bones at an upward tilt.
I concentrated on the don’ts: don’t toe in, don’t shift hips, don’t take either giant strides or baby-steps, don’t lead with my head, and don’t swing my shoulders.
I learned to “inspect” my chair’s seat cushion before I sat down. I found the chair with the backs of my legs, held my skirt in the proper position, made contact with the front of the chair and then pushed back into the seat with my shoulders straight.
I grew to be most comfortable when sitting against the backrest, both legs slanting to the same side. My feet were properly positioned, pointing the same way with one foot slightly in front of the other. Occasionally, I crossed my legs at the knee. I discovered it was best not to cross my knees in a straight, knee-length skirt.
Modesty had always been a big issue with me -- and it became huge.
Given the cameras, I couldn’t imagine masturbation. Each day, sexual arousal because of my clothes seemed to be less frequent. It occurred to me that my friends might have been slipping me something to reduce my libido. I dismissed the idea, as I trusted them, at least that much.
They seemed to be all about me making my own decisions -- just as long as I kept making some decisions.
Sarah, Debbie, and Anne were no longer trying to embarrass me. Their conversations with me were all constructive. They weren’t at all condescending. I felt better about who I was -- having read that “normal” is anything that feels right for the individual and doesn’t harm anyone.
Anne helped me the most with my voice.
I had been going in the right direction. My pitch was about right, about half an octave higher.
I became happier with my slender body, new nose, and graceful deportment, it was reflected in my voice.
I had developed a relaxed self-confidence.
Most of the work on my voice was done in solitude with almost no outside noise. My years of jogging helped immensely, as I had good breath control. The increased air I was getting through my newly opened nasal passages was welcome, an added benefit of my nose job. I was careful to use my breath for an entire phrase, with a little air left at the end. I was learning not to puff or make exhaling noises at the end of my sentences, like most males.
The process of adding proper inflection had become like singing. I heard how I wanted to sound in my mind and then allowed my body to produce it. My voice became melodic and much less staccato. In time, I added a dash of Scarlett O’Hara. I dropped the dripping tones I had once used -- but salvaged some of the techniques. I sounded the first letter of each phrase softly, gently using my mouth to form the sound and slightly stretching the vowels.
A measured amount of Tara does wonders for a girl.
Inflection was my ally. I had never realized how monotoned I had been. By allowing my voice to rise and fall much more often, I had become more expressive.
Sarah brought a tape recorder so I could practice.
It was fun and not really that difficult. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. By George, she's got it! By George, she's got it!
Anne also started me on a stretching program, which further relaxed me.
I was having a re-occurring dream. In that dream, I was lying on a bed next to a woman. The woman was nice-looking but had no personality. We looked at each other and started to meld into one being. I tried to get away from the melding together. At that point, I woke up.
As I experienced the warmth and caring nature of my friends, I adopted their attitudes. It seemed like I was forgetting about rules and regulations that had been with me for years. They didn’t apply under my circumstances.
In business, attitude is everything. I was finding that attitude was everything in the gender world as well. I was eager to give all that I had learned a road test.
***
The time preparing for my date, in the beauty shop, went by in a flash. I had never before been so pampered. If they knew my secret, they must not have cared. I showed them what I planned to wear -- the chemise, after what seemed like eight hundred changes, in front of my mirror. I also told them where I was going. They descended on me, in a pack.
I placed myself in their hands. Much of what they said about my head - went over my head. Do I want a rinse? Sure! If they’re going to wash my hair I would hope that they would rinse it. Did I want my hair highlighted? Sounded good. Why the heck not?
Everything was just great. They brought me herbal tea. There were aromatherapy candles everywhere. More-is-more with aromatherapy. I almost dozed off, once the body waxing was done.
The stylist seemed to be clipping off a lot of hair. She must have been reading my mind. “I’m only cleaning up the split-ends, Honey. Your hair will actually look longer and grow faster. Have you been using your hairdryer on high? Try using a lower heat setting with higher speed.”
My barber had never told me that -- and he had never shaped my eyebrows, as she did.
They finished by doing my nails in that French style with white tips. Sarah probably ordered that for me.
When they finally spun my chair around. . .. “Ooohh!” They had taken my dull dark-brown hair and changed it to medium-golden brown with light-blonde streaks. My make-up was what you would expect to see at a fine restaurant like The French Café. In the mirror, was a very girlish me, looking elegantly natural.
It became crystal clear why they call it a looking glass. I could go on looking all day.
They gave me the lipstick and powder they had used to go in my purse. The rest of the cosmetics were placed in a bag to take back to the motel.
I had thirty minutes to return to the motel, change, and get to the restaurant to meet John. I was too euphoric from the pampering, to be panicky.
Sarah met me in the waiting area of the salon and went in the cab, with me. She was going to be in the restaurant -- but out of John’s sight. He wouldn’t know she was there.
I’m not sure I could have made a quick clothing change without Sarah’s immense help.
I was fashionably late.
The Maitre d’ fussed over me like a mother hen. He clucked about the ‘oaf’ my date was to be seated before his lady friend. He gently took my hand and pressed it to his lips.
What a rush!
When he complimented me on my dress, my knees trembled. I had spent so much time deciding on my outfit that I had a large emotional interest, in someone’s approval.
At first, John didn’t recognize me, despite having seen recent photos.
While the Maitre d’ chastised him for being so rude, John jumped to his feet, to pull out my chair.
“Jill, you’re the most beautiful woman in this restaurant,” John said. “No, scratch that. You’re the most beautiful woman, in all of Omaha and Council Bluffs. . .the world.”
I wasn’t prepared for such a reception. I had thought he would look me over like some specimen, in a Petri dish. Had I ever sounded like such a sycophant? Yet, I want to believe his compliments. I felt a prickle, in my cheeks. My face has to be glowing red, through my sheer make-up.
I had prepared a lecture questioning the base nature of anyone who would date a man, in a dress. I planned to deliver it the second, after I finished my steak. Omaha has a steak house that serves fifty-six-ounce steaks. If you finish one, they give you a medal and put a picture of you, on the wall. The French Café isn’t that kind of place.
They do have steak on their menu and I’m going to order it.
The Maitre d’ helped me with my napkin. The linen felt dreadfully rough compared to my world, of silk and satin.
John ordered Dom Perignon champagne. He toasted my beauty -- too many times.
To my amazement, I couldn’t stop blushing.
He toasted my blush, as I giggled. He told the history of a Benedictine monk, Pierre Perignon, and his search for the perfect white wine. He quoted Victor Hugo, “God only made water, but man-made wine.”
As we munched on baked escargot, he told a story about a social-climbing snail.
The snail bought a fast car and painted a large S on the exterior of each front door. It was the snail’s dream to drive his car down the street, causing people to turn their heads and say, ‘Wow, look at that S car go.’
I found myself laughing. Maybe he isn’t a sycophant. My feminine giggle sounds much more genuine than my “Jim” laugh had been.
I was pleased when John followed the waiter’s advice regarding which wine, to have with our meal.
Several times I had argued with waiters merely to assert my dominance. It was comforting to be with someone who allowed things to flow smoothly.
After gaining my permission, John ordered the chateaubriand for two. It came in a béarnaise sauce, with a garland of vegetables. He added onion soup and baked brie with a salad of mesclun in almond and thyme dressing.
John is single and a history professor at a liberal arts college. He has definite ideas about where he wants to go and what he wants to do. All of his telling and quoting is funny, kind, and not the least bit patronizing.
Out of habit, from the weeks I had spent with my friends, I spoke only to elicit more information. We were having a conversation, with him doing most of the talking.
I told him about myself only through my response, to his monologue.
Not once did he bring up my gender -- or ask annoying questions regarding cross-dressing or sexuality.
As Jim, I would have tried to dominate the conversation, by interrupting him constantly. It was much more fun to hear him talk, and respond only when he wanted my opinion.
He respected my outlook.
I felt no pressure to initiate ideas.
He apologized several times, for behaving so badly at TGI FRIDAY’S. He was very sorry for being part of what almost happened. He was sensitive enough to know our short conversation had been hurtful and inappropriate.
I canceled my planned reprimand.
Once we were comfortable with one another, he showed me a worn piece of paper he carried, in his wallet. It was a list of things he wanted to accomplish. Some of the items on the list were adventurous -- others were humanitarian. He showed me how he had drawn a single line through them -- after he did them.
I was impressed by what he had accomplished.
He made me feel special, by telling me that I’m the first person he’s shown his list.
I felt no desire to one-up what he had done. It was enough to share his joy of life.
I searched the list for “Date a Transvestite,” and was relieved not to find it. I don’t want to be something to be crossed off. Our fingers touched when I passed the list back to him. Mmmmm. His smile is intoxicating.
When our food arrived, my eyes feasted on the superb presentation of the food -- a visual display that was as satisfying as the actual eating.
We had a lot in common, beyond our biological gender. It was like being out to dinner with a charming business associate. Except, no business associate had ever flattered me with such intense attention. Nor had any compared my eyes to precious jewels.
His eyes rarely left me, making me anxious about my hair, my make-up, and my dress. I compared myself to the other women in our part of the restaurant and confirmed that I was properly coifed, attired, and made-up.
Each woman I saw smiled at me and gave me the impression she was there for me, if I needed her.
I put my fears behind me and enjoyed the conversation.
There was no “footsie” or battling to keep his hands off me. He treated me with the utmost respect.
I hadn’t felt so appreciated for quite some time. I hadn’t even been giving myself respect. It’s hard to feel good about myself when I’m unsure of the morality of my most personal activities.
I like him. John is one of the most attractive men in the restaurant. He’s too young for someone my age -- even though I looked much younger as a woman than my “Jim” age.
I’m still proud to be his date. He makes me feel proud that I’m appealing enough to be with him. We look good together.
He’s well-built -- but not too burly -- with Paul Newman-blue eyes. There’s a warmth to his laugh. His smile involves his entire face. He appreciates my attempts at humor. His clothes betray his profession.
There has to be a rack of pipes in his study, even though he doesn’t reek of that stale odor of a pipe smoker.
Debbie, Sarah, and Anne made me promise I would report back to them on three things:
1. The color of his eyes?
2. Whether I like his sense of humor? If so, I’m to give them examples, and
3. How large are his hands?
I made mental notes, to answer their questions.
I picked at my food -- knowing that if I ate too much my stomach would rebel.
Much to my surprise, my real appetite was for attention. Unlike my trips to Perkins and TGI FRIDAY’S, I wanted the eyes of everyone, in the restaurant, to be on me - without having to make a special effort.
The champagne was going to my head -- and also to my bladder. I needed to visit the ladies’ room. What had caused me such a fright at Perkins seemed no problem whatsoever.
I excused myself, found the ladies’ room, and took care of my needs.
As I took my powder out of my Italian shoulder bag, I realized it held only cosmetic and other feminine items. There were no money or credit cards.
I’m not in control. I’m at someone else’s mercy.
From the things I had read, I knew being reliant was considered feminine. Over the years, Jackie had bridled at having to rely on me. If we were at a restaurant or going into a movie, she always wanted me to know that she had her money.
It felt pleasant, to trust John, to take care, of me.
I fixed the damage to my make-up that had been caused by drinking two glasses of champagne and eating a small amount of steak. I used the skills I had acquired over the past few weeks, on the internet, in the beauty shop, and from the trio.
As I floated back to the table, it never crossed my mind that anything was out of the ordinary. I was a good-looking woman out on the town with a good-looking man who was lavishing, on me, all the attention I deserved.
I love it.
It occurred to me that there was a potential for disaster. But just as quickly, I reasoned that disaster was a possibility, in almost any activity. My potential for honest-to-goodness fun seemed much more probable.
The trip to the ladies’ room had taken about fifteen minutes, solving the secret of what takes women so long.
We finished what we wanted of our entrees.
The waitress asked if I wanted a doggie bag.
Debbie, Anne, and Sarah had coached me that my doggie wasn’t to get anything.
I declined.
John had a healthy appetite. He wouldn’t hear of me not having something from the dessert cart. He ordered raspberry covered cheesecake for me, even though I told him I could only eat a bite and then beamed when I proclaimed the cheesecake to be, “Splendid.”
I spotted Sarah. I had forgotten about her. I signaled for her to meet me in the ladies’ room and excused myself again. As I used the mirror to repair mostly imaginary flaws, I gushed, “Sarah! He wants to take me dancing. What should I do?” We were in the Old Market district and there was music in the air. I had never danced with a man, but John had raised my confidence to where anything seemed possible.
“Not a chance, Jill. Tell him you agreed to dinner. That’s it. Tell him you’re sharing a cab with someone and that person is already waiting for you. I’m tired. I signed on to babysit you until your meal ended. This Fairy Godmother is about to turn your carriage, into a pumpkin.”
Sarah’s right. It’s time to end the evening. Oh, but the idea of a dance with him sounds delightful. Jackie is a wonderful dancer, but we haven’t danced much after the boys had been born.
I allowed myself a bit of a pout, as I walked back to our table.
I had been to The French Café before. He would pay well over three hundred dollars, for our meal. I was taking his time, and allowing him to spend money, under false pretenses. I reached across the table and patted his large and hairy hand. I hoped the smile on my face was warm and affectionate. “Thank you ever so much for the wonderful evening, John. This has been a very special night for me. It has been truly lovely. But I really have to go. My cab is waiting.”
“I’m disappointed, Jill. The night is young. We’re getting along so well. Everything, especially you, has been perfect.”
My body trembled.
While walking toward the door, I pointed to the band on my finger. “John, I have to be honest. This really is my wedding ring. I’m married. I’ve never cheated and never will.”
He did not answer.
The evening air was exhilarating. The lights of downtown Omaha were unable to mask the brilliance of the stars sparkling above. Without warning, John swept me into his arms and placed a firm kiss, on my lips.
At first, I was repulsed. No man had ever kissed me. Never had I given such a thing a moment’s consideration. But like the maitre d’s kiss of my hand, I found myself enjoying John’s homage. Even though he outweighed me by fifty pounds, I felt safe wrapped in his arms.
John’s one hand was gently caressing my backside, while the other pulled me close to him.
I offered no resistance as I dissolved into his body.
He probed my mouth with his tongue.
I accepted. My kiss was meant to thank John for treating me like a human being. I was relieved by how well the evening had gone. Our actions were fitting, in the context of the moment.
It was the first time anyone had touched me in weeks. I reverted to how I had been as a teenager, fogging the windows of my parent’s car locked in a goodnight embrace. I was vaguely aware of other people passing by us on the sidewalk -- but had lost a sense of the time.
I might still be floating above the sidewalk on Howard Street -- lip-locked with John -- had Sarah not told her driver to honk his horn.
Startled, I broke away from John, and ran to the cab. My penis strained against my body shaper.
What has happened to me? I supposedly am a fetishist cross-dresser, who often wears women’s clothing for their erotic effect. I’m not a homosexual.
From what I had read, the percentage of cross-dressers that are homosexual is roughly the same as the percentage of homosexuals, in the general male population. Yet, I was fully clothed in women’s clothing, and had been enjoying the attention and sexual advances of a male companion.
I love to touch Jackie. I have trouble sleeping at night unless I’m in contact with her.
He isn’t Jackie. But he is human - warm - and I had been in his arms.
My behavior, thoughts, and actions had matched my clothing. Or rather, it was possible that my clothes were finally matching my core thoughts and desires.
As I used the mirror, in my compact, to fix my make-up, I was lost in thought. Was I finding myself, or losing what little definite identity I once had?
In my heart, I knew I could only be unfaithful to Jackie, with another woman. Yet, I had been. . .something. What?
***
The morning greeted me with an upset stomach, even though I had eaten only a small portion of the steak. It had been the first red meat I had consumed in quite some time. I stared at the ceiling and toyed with the idea of becoming a vegan. What would Warren Buffett, with all his Dairy Queen stock, think of the prospects of no more “Cool Treats or Hot Eats” for Jill?
Despite my pains, I was happy. I was pleased with the decisions I had made in my sleep. I’m going to tell my wonderful jailers that I’m a willing participant in whatever they have in mind. They don’t have to use coercion. I’m a believer.
They were on the right track. I was starting to understand myself.
What happened with John will have a lasting impact on me. That impact will be much more permanent than ear piercing. I can deal with pierced ears. I had made a valid bet with Anne, and it’s her right as my friend, to trust me. I’ll have my ears pierced, as soon as possible.
Debbie was ready for lunch at 10:00. She was delighted with my decision to be a willing participant. They had reached the same general conclusions. She handed me a packet containing my Jill photographs, the signed agreements, and a CD containing the only copy of the incriminating website.
I’m free. Free to be me. And, I have a pretty good idea who “me” is.
“We’ve decided it would be okay for you to hear from Jackie,” Debbie said. “This note is from her. We aren’t going to allow you to write back, but we’ll bring you her messages every day. She’s been kept up-to-date on how you’re doing. You’re free to follow our program, or go on your own.”
“I have to see it through to the end.”
Debbie smiled.
“Does Jackie know that I went out on a date, with a man?”
“She knows that we made you go to dinner, with John.”
“Oh!” I don’t know what to think.
Debbie didn’t offer an opinion.
Jackie’s note was only a few sentences long, as were all that followed. They contained words of encouragement and love. They were enough to sustain me. Up until I received that first note, I had suffered tremendous anxiety, while dithering about our relationship.
Debbie, a closet earring maven, was excited about the ear piercing. We went directly to Borsheim’s.
If you’re going to have your ears pierced, you might as well do it at one of the world’s largest jewelry stores.
As soon as we got in the car, Debbie turned and touched my hand. “Did you enjoy your date?”
Is she teasing me? I don’t think so, but I’m still a little embarrassed. My feelings were more unsettled than I had thought when I first woke up.
“Joohhnnn called this morning,” she teased when I didn’t answer.
For once I didn’t mind Debbie’s drawl. I was both anxious and eager to hear what “Joohhnnn” had to say.
“He thinks you’re lovely. He’s hoping what you told him about your fidelity to Jackie isn’t true. In fact, he’s hoping that Jackie is just a figment of your imagination.”
“. . .a figment of my imagination? Why would he think that? What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth. I told him that you love Jackie. I also told him that to the best of my knowledge you’ve never been with anyone else since your marriage.”
“What did he say?”
“He wasn’t happy. He went on and on about how sexy you are. He said that you’re one of the nicest people he’s ever met.”
“Was he intrigued by me? Or was it my being a cross-dresser? Does he date other transvestites?”
“He originally asked you out mainly because of his curiosity. You really surprised him. He completely forgot about you being a man, until after he got home last night. He said something about your sex being a very minor flaw, in a very special lady.”
“Debbie, it was so different. All my life, I’ve been the one to talk -- while women listened. It’s been hard for me to carry out that masculine role. I’ve always felt I was being too assertive, too strident. Many times, in social settings I have been unable to summon the energy needed to be as manly as expected. I’ve forced myself to speak with a confidence I didn’t really have. It was so wonderful to defer to John and listen.”
“Men need to develop their listening skills,” Debbie said. “They tend to give pop answers to complex subjects, without doing anything but superficial thinking.”
“I’ve felt like such a boor many times, by cutting in on other people. I’ve been especially bad with women. I’ve felt social pressure to dominate every conversation.”
Debbie thought for a while. “I hate it when men keep dragging the discussion out of context, to bring in topics where they can show themselves as experts -- or to be smarter than others. Men are such competitive pigs.”
I felt no obligation to defend men. “Last night, all I wanted to do was to help John complete his thoughts, to expand his ideas. Did he really say that I’m sexy?”
“He said it several times. He said he wasn’t the only one who thought so. Evidently, the eyes of every man in the restaurant were devouring you.”
“Devouring? Debbie. - - Stop it.”
“No, kid. You really did overwhelm them last night. Sarah said the same things.”
“Sarah said something nice about me?”
“Sure. She really does like you, you know. She said that you were the sexiest, most feminine person, in the restaurant, last night.”
“How could that be? I took such great pains - went to such lengths - to select a sweet, conservative outfit. My make-up was understated. I didn’t try to be sexy. The only scent I wore was from the lotions they used, at the beauty shop. I don’t get it.”
“‘Sexy’ is a mysterious quantity, as is ‘femininity.’ John couldn’t believe that someone as feminine as you could possibly be a man. Get this, Jill. He thinks you’re really a woman, who was made-up to look like a man -- that day at TGI FRIDAY’S.”
“No kidding.” I laughed at the irony -- but was immensely pleased. In a way, he was right. I was beginning to see that I truly had been a woman in men’s clothing. “I don’t know what to think of all this. I enjoyed last night. It was a once in a lifetime experience though, as I’m devoted to Jackie. I didn’t have the same kind of feelings for John that I have for Jackie. Yet, I was extremely comfortable being his date.”
“Sarah said that you were a lot more than comfortable -- saying goodnight.” Debbie was smiling at me, with a sparkle in her eyes that spoke of high mischief.
I hadn’t seen her so affectionate, in months.
“Sarah talks too much,” I said, not meaning a word of it.
With that, we drove to Borsheim’s in silence.
Femininity is indeed a mystery. It occurred to me that less-is-more might apply to other things besides perfume. Femininity, as we see it portrayed by Madison Avenue, was invented by a male-dominated society. Their ads show feminine women to have those talents and shortcomings that make women best suited to perform domestic labor or childbearing. Those who embrace the essence of Madison Avenue femininity seem suited for almost nothing else.
I had always given value to the feminine perspective. I appreciate the beauty of a robust woman as well as one who is dainty. I don’t believe femininity is achieved through perfume, make-up, or clothing. Those items can only enhance an existing attitude.
Some suggest that being feminine includes being inadequate, helpless, and inferior. I had never equated those qualities with being female. Most feminine women I admire are physically strong, emotionally stable, and very competent.
I’m certain I’m no longer able to be as masculine -- as I once had been. I’m not at all certain what all that means.
Madison Avenue’s manly men seem just as bogus. I just know that things have changed with me -- a lot.
As we walked up to the jewelry store, our reflection in the main doors could have been a Doublemint ad. Debbie was cuter, there was no doubt about that, but I wasn’t all that bad. We both had pleasant smiles. We looked like we would be fun to know.
I had always prided myself on my ability to intimidate people. The womanly image reflecting back at me, from the store door, wasn’t the least bit intimidating. I’m inviting and quite content.
The ear-piercing was more ritual than pain. I left Borsheim’s with drainage studs in my ears and several other pairs, in my purse. Through Debbie’s knowledge, I became skilled at the ins and outs of when to dangle and when to glitter.
We also bought pins.
Debbie loved pins. She had pins that were expressly made for her Chanel suits and other pins, for every occasion.
Up until that morning, I hadn’t owned a single pin.
When we got back to the motel room a dozen long-stemmed roses were waiting for me. The card said,
Debbie told me that you’re leaving town, for a few months. I hope to see you the minute you get back. It will seem like years, to me. — John.
Debbie had made an excuse for me, if I want it.
See me again? Jackie is the only date I want. How am I going to take care of John? I don’t want to hurt him. But hey!
I stared at the roses and read the card several times. I didn’t know if the roses were an award or an affirmation. Whatever they were, they made me happy and tearful.
The next five weeks, the four of us had daily lunch and dinner. It varied whether one, two, or three of them took me. We ate at a variety of restaurants -- never going back to a Perkins or a TGI FRIDAY’S.
My appetite was greatly reduced. I always ate a light fare. In many of the restaurants, eating within my diet was a challenge because of the fat-based menus and large portions.
Each of the several times Sarah, Debbie, and Anne asked, I reported that John had blue eyes, a great sense of humor, and large hands.
They thought the large hands part was exceptionally funny.
I told them the most enjoyable part of his humor was the lack of a target. His humor was gentle, based on the incongruities of life.
I was constantly dressed from head to toe in women’s clothing, which I no longer needed to feel feminine. My life, the people and things around me, weren’t battering me to be masculine. My natural actions and emotions came to the surface. I would have been feminine wearing combat fatigues.
My guilt disappeared. My Catholic upbringing -- combined with the religious leaders in my community -- had done a thorough job of making me feel terrible about myself.
Some well-intended people believe that cross-dressing -- and homosexuality -- are sinful, as it will interfere with one of our primary goals, that of perpetuating our race. Given the over-population of our planet, such a line of reasoning is outdated.
Why is it we can see the oppression in other religions, but can’t see subjugation for what it is in our own religion? Someday, Christians will take a more Christian attitude toward cross-dressing.
I talked to God about what was happening. I was at peace in my relationship with Him.
Sarah, who normally avoided physical activities, and I went on several long walks around Elmwood Park. I loved the feel of the wind blowing under my skirt and the sun on my face. The outdoors made me so happy -- I just hadn’t allowed it to happen before.
During one of our walks, I asked Sarah what she thought were her most feminine qualities.
Women love to multi-task. Men will stop in their tracks to answer a serious question. We strolled on as she answered.
“I take a lot of pride in being a woman,” Sarah said. “I want to be different than a-hole men. I’m not at all afraid to allow my intuition to run its course. It’s done okay by me. I enjoy pleasing my senses with colors, soft clothing, and scents. The biggest thing to me is the ability to depend on other women to watch out, for me. I couldn’t get through the day, without their support.”
I was flabbergasted that Sarah would expose her soft side and proud she felt that she could open up with me.
Later that day, I asked Debbie the same question.
“It’s the inner softness that makes me feel feminine. Some people call it mystique. Others say it’s a touch of class. I think it’s my sensitivity to my own vulnerability. I enjoy knowing I’m not a block of granite.”
Much of that was apparent in Debbie. She’s lovely.
The next day, I also asked Anne what it was that made her female. She lightly punched me on the arm and bounced around me.
“Being a female is all about playfulness. Don’tcha just love to play? I’m down with a feminine sense of humor. Women have such musical laughs. We also have the ability to weep buckets when we need to. My biggie is knowing other women won’t take advantage of my trusting nature. You know what? Trusting, crying, laughing, and tickling pretty much sums up my life, Baby.”
Anne is certainly playful. Like the others, she seems to know herself quite well.
Women seem to be much more introspective.
As each bared her soul, I knew I was rapidly developing similar attitudes. I was expanding beyond life-long boundaries. I wanted the immense versatility a woman has in her life. Society allows women much greater latitude in emotions and personality. A huge part of being female to me is the knowledge I don’t have to vie with a man on his ground. I don’t like the rules men play by. I want to exist on a higher moral plane.
Regretfully, most of our time together seemed to be centered on me. They delved into my life with hundreds of questions. We spoke of things I had never thought about, and things I had thought about almost constantly, but never imagined I would discuss with anyone.
Anne brought over a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog.
-- I knew it! –
She spent hours teaching me the wonders of lingerie. We went over the finer points of teddies, corsets, and bustiers. She gave me a seminar on panties - - bikinis, high cuts, and microfiber.
I was dazzled by the myriad of colors and designs. The attention to the finer details of women’s needs was enthralling.
Anne knew everything there was to know about slips -- and made sure that I did too.
We reviewed their specialty section, including several French-maid costumes.
Much to my relief, Anne didn’t comment on them.
We discussed foundation garments: waist cinchers, control briefs, and shapers.
They were all exciting to me, in that I could visualize ways they would allow me to wear more becoming fashions.
Anne made a special effort to help me understand bedroom attire. We laughed at Frederick’s “limited edition anniversary gown.” She called it the “va — va — va — voom” nightie.
We laughed so hard that we both were snorting like Sandra Bullock.
They bought me an old CD player and shared some of their favorites from the past, with me. I listened to the lyrics and I cried through the entire “Bridge Over Troubled Water” CD dozens of times. I was especially taken by the message of ---
“I have no need of friendships
Friendship causes pain -------
And an island never cries.”
By avoiding real friendships, like those I had with Debbie, Sarah, and Anne, I had been missing out on life. I no longer wanted to be an island. Crying was okay by me. I often cried for silly reasons. The beauty of nature made me cry, at least once a day.
Billy Joel seemed to be talking directly to me when he sang;
“I don’t want clever conversation,
I never want to work that hard,
I just want someone to talk to,
I want you just the way you are.
When my treatment is over, I’ll make time every day to talk to Jackie. Not about “important things’’ -- just talk.
I used to wonder what Jackie and I would find to talk about when we retired and our family was out of the nest. It was my theory that the real reason for middle-age divorce and trophy wives was so that men didn’t have to answer that question. I want to have a life where I don’t have to make time to talk to Jackie -- a life where we talk as a matter of course.
The more I got to know Anne, the more the blatant sexism she faced daily because of her stunning looks made me disgusted to be a guy. What license does her body give to men that allows them to think of her as a bimbo? My ideas were becoming abnormal for a male, and I embraced the change. I was no longer afraid of my sensitivity.
Sarah and I also talked at length about sexism. According to Sarah, one of the things the three had always found endearing about me was my willingness to accept women for their abilities.
Sarah told me she thought the theories that demanded two distinct sexes exhibited sexism at its worst. She felt that those who actively espoused two distinct sexes inherently accepted significant and obvious differences between males and females. That kind of thinking prolonged a male dominant society. Sarah was appalled at women who supported such nonsense.
I could no longer see the physical resemblance between Sarah and the Duchess Fergie and quit calling her by that nickname.
In many ways, Sarah is much more butch than I am. She can be ultra-femme, like with her nails. But on the other hand, she’s rarely nurturing and doesn’t value that trait in others.
Anne loves to hunt and fish and she’s okay with killing Bambi.
-- Does Frederick’s make lingerie suitable for a deer-stand? –
Conversely, she’s also a wizard with cosmetics and spent hours teaching me about applying, wearing, and removing them. It was a course in the what, when, and where of make-up.
Debbie is very masculine in her strength, leadership, and vigor, yet she’s dainty and delicate.
Jackie is the most feminine person I know. She’s gentle to a fault. Her mother had named her after Jacqueline Onassis. She has all the elegance of Jackie O. Yet, she had taken over many of the male duties in our household and relished her abilities to accomplish them. She’s very independent, often cutting off my remarks mid-sentence.
Each of the four women defined “female” as they wanted. They were vastly different from one another.
My feminine nature fits easily, within them.
When we went out, I studied other women. Some had classic masculine physical features: large feet, broad shoulders, narrow hips, square faces, and muscular definition. Others carried themselves like a guy. Many exhibited aggressive, obnoxious, man-like behavior.
In my opinion, I fit toward the feminine end of the women spectrum.
I couldn’t go on cross-dressing, on a part-time basis. I no longer would be able to satisfy myself, with temporary fixes. I needed to make a full-time gender switch.
But one that wouldn’t involve sex reassignment surgery.
Debbie brought over a portable video player and her aerobic tapes. We jazzercised and jogged.
My new exercise clothes were so incredibly fun. I loved the scrumptious way spandex hugged my curves.
Sarah and I watched every Nora Ephron film.
I memorized Sleepless in Seattle.
Through sharing them with Sarah, I understood what it is about a chick flick that is so wonderful. I love Ephron’s humor.
Anne gave me a book in which Nora said, “Women are considered as candidates for the Vice President of the United States because it’s the worst job in America. It’s amazing that men will take it. A job with real power is First Lady. I’d be willing to run for that. As far as the men who are running for President are concerned, they aren’t even people I would date.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I couldn’t agree less with something else attributed to Ephron. There is a very sensitive autobiography called Conundrum. A transsexual by the name of Jan Morris is the author.
Morris said, “I was three or four when I first realized I had been born into the wrong body and should have been a girl. I was sitting beneath my mother’s piano.”
Ephron said, in a review of the book, “A boy sitting under a piano would probably be looking up his mother’s dress. A visit to a Freudian analyst to recover this scenario might have saved Morris the trouble and expense of transsexual surgery.”
How can she make such tender movies, and utter such an ignorant remark?
My top-ten favorite movies of all-time no longer included Caddyshack, Animal House, and Slapshot. So I got that goin’ for me; which is nice.
We went to plays and concerts, but almost no sporting events. I made a real effort to break with that part of my past. I spent time contemplating my competitive nature. Over the years, I had been beaten badly by women in tennis and long-distance running. The gender difference was greatly exaggerated, in at least those two sports.
I had learned that winning wasn’t the point in either tennis or a marathon. I gave my opponents my best game out of respect. But I was much more concerned about the fun involved than the outcome. I was starting to see that I needed to transfer that lesson, to the rest of my life.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with sports, but I needed to go, in a slightly new direction. I would never give up my seats, for the College World Series. They were right behind home plate and two rows up. I had purchased them for years, and I loved the slow pace of a spring day, at Ameritrade Park.
Anne and I went to the Henry Doorly Zoo twice. I loved watching the families on the steam-powered locomotive. Boys love trains and I wanted to be on that train with my boys. I had never taken my boys to the zoo, even though I had often intended to.
I found myself smiling — a lot. I felt so alive. My senses were taking in everything. I was elated that I wasn’t taking Prozac or any other drugs to dull my sense and “cure” my so-called disorder.
We shopped.
Day in and day out we hit every woman’s clothing store in Omaha. We had been to every “Road.” We also went to the smaller malls and the specialty shops. We traveled to outlet malls and even went across the river to Council Bluffs. We went to Regency Mall, which was close to my house.
They always paid for whatever I wanted, with my credit cards.
Many days we didn’t buy a thing, and I still loved it.
I was doing girlish things with my girlfriends. No one was disapproving -- especially me.
They taught me fashion and about various kinds of clothing. Things my mother would have taught me under different circumstances.
I found a darling denim shirtdress with three-quarter length sleeves. It was indigo and fell to just above my knees. It was a Michael Kors creation and had been $225; it was marked down to $40.14. Jim would have bought three of them, thereby reducing the need for future shopping. I was pleased to buy one, allowing me to hunt for other treasures.
I also came across sequined denim slides with two-inch heels. They didn’t go with the denim dress, but I absolutely loved them. I decided to wait to buy them until I happened upon a skirt, to go with them. Jim never would have had that outlook -- or patience.
I had loads of time to discuss fashion with all three. I was amazed at the width and breadth of women’s clothing. My old secret wardrobe had been outdated, the wrong colors, seasonally incorrect, not age or activity-specific, and in general “trashy.” I had been improperly combining pieces and wearing the wrong clothes for the time of day. I assembled a new core wardrobe that could be worn for a multitude of times and occasions.
Once I had no choice but to wear women’s clothing, I became comfortable with them. On those occasions, prior to my friends “capturing” me, when I had that rare opportunity to wear women’s clothing for an extended period of time, I normally lasted less than two or three hours, before I wanted to take them off.
My new mindset was to wear them as clothing and not as a costume. I had no desire to wear men’s clothing.
Once I knew I had my friends’ approval of my cross-dressing, a cloud was lifted that had darkened my life. I suddenly had astonishing energy. I slept less, exercised more, ate less, and seemed to have minimal stress.
We were becoming great friends. I was really getting to know them all. They escalated the level of the questions about my cross-dressing. I could tell they had done their homework. Nothing was off-limits.
They wanted to know how I had felt about my cross-dressing at various ages, when I started, how I started, and much, much more.
My answers were complete and fully honest. It was wonderful to have those conversations with them, even the awkward ones with Sarah, the ones that centered on my masturbation.
Debbie and I talked about my night with John several times. I had become more comfortable discussing it. It had been sexy. I enjoyed the evening because it was a verification that I was lovable. I hadn’t been sure whether anyone really found me lovable, especially Jackie. I didn’t, couldn’t, admit to Debbie that I had been physically attracted to John.
I had concluded that I would be very hard on me, if I was Jackie and Jackie was me. I hate it when people do illogical things. It’s illogical for me to want to be treated as a woman, in a male-dominant society. I’m giving up many advantages. I wrestled with that notion.
Further, I tend to think that people with “untreatable” conditions might well be faking the symptoms. If I didn’t know everything I knew about cross-dressing, I would think transvestites were sensationalists.
Most importantly, I placed a high priority on honesty. Isn’t a cross-dresser that’s trying to pass actually lying to the public? I concluded the cross-dresser isn’t lying, if she’s dressing in her true gender.
I was beginning to see how my cross-dressing had been missing the point. I had been using cross-dressing for sexual arousal and should have been using it for gender identification.
None of them would talk about the specific pain I had caused Anne the night of the “Taste of France.” I tried to get it out of each of them.
Debbie and Sarah simply ignored my questions.
Anne said, “It’s too painful to talk about. The fewer people that know the better.”
I respected her wishes.
I went back to the salon every third or fourth day. I love that place. The staff at the salon taught things about working with my hair. I purchased a curling iron and a few other necessities and then Anne and I worked together on the basics.
Sarah told me that all four of them, including Jackie, had taken the time to do empathy exercises to try to understand what I was going through.
Sarah used make-up to simulate a five o’clock shadow before going into a bar in a dress. She said her results had been a lot like mine at Perkins.
Both Anne and Debbie called old friends. They told their friends they were really male. Their friends were greatly relieved at the end of the conversations to find out it had been a hoax. Through this exercise, Debbie and Anne experienced transphobia first-hand.
Jackie called the police station, and reported that her “brother” had been harassed while he was “dressed.” She found the hatred and heterosexism one would expect.
It’s no longer politically correct to show overt dislike for gays. The day will come when transgenderists will be accepted as a third sex. The day of transgenderists acceptance had not arrived in Omaha, as my three friends discovered.
I spent time learning new things on the internet or practicing new things on my own, in front of a mirror. I was learning about femininity and womanhood -- things little girls took for granted.
Debbie drove me by my house twice. We parked up the street. I waited to see my two older kids come home from school. I watched as the youngest played in the sandbox with Jackie. On both occasions, I made Debbie stay until I saw all four of them. My golden retriever, Champ, was playing with them.
I even miss Champ. He was submissive with me. When I would come home from work, he would immediately flip over on his back. At times, he would even pee. He wasn’t submissive with women. He had a horrible habit of humping women’s legs, if we didn’t keep a close eye on him.
I cried tears of longing and begged Debbie to take me to watch them more often. But she said that it was better if I stayed away until the process was completed.
The process seemed to be moving along. I had gone from a public perception of being really weird, to having others consider me as normal. Who wouldn’t gladly make that transition? I was in high spirits. There had to have been people who read me in the stores and restaurants we went to -- but no one made an issue out of it, at least to my face. There may have been horrible things said behind my back -- but they never reached me. I didn’t worry about it.
I looked online for psychiatric studies about children of transgendered parents. I found no clinical evidence of any harm to children attributed solely, to living with a transgenderist.
Vindictive spouses who wanted to “spare” their children the “humiliation” had done most of the documented harm. I assumed from reading the cases that much of the cruelty was done to establish advantageous positions in divorce negotiations.
At work, I had always stayed away from the actual research. I had anointed myself the office problem solver. Although I didn’t overtly consider research to be women’s work, I more than likely had that bias. With time to think in my motel room, I found that I really enjoyed the research I was doing.
Perhaps when I go back to work, I’ll restructure the office duties.
Sarah and I shared several girls’ nights. We did each other’s nails and hair. It was amazingly calming. We talked at length about submissive women. Sarah wasn’t submissive. Sarah noted that some women are like Melissa McCarthy and some are like Charlize Theron. Some are truck drivers and some sell cosmetics. Sarah understood submissive women -- but didn’t ever want to be one.
Each discovery brought me closer to my friends. We were intimate, but never sexual. None of them ever slept over. We did kiss frequently, but never on the lips, and never anything like I had with Jackie --- or John.
How had they put up with me for so long? Why had Jackie stuck it out?
At times, I was terribly horny. I hadn’t had sex for weeks. If it wasn’t for all the moisturizers and creams I used on a regular basis I probably would have erupted in pimples.
(In Part Five -- Tony, one of the partners who own the large corporation all of them work for -- is coming to Omaha, to meet with Jim. How will they ever explain Jill?)
Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.
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Shannon’s Course
Peaches
Sky
The Novitiate
Ma Cherie Amour
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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
Tony, one of the partners who own the large corporation all of them work for, is coming to Omaha to meet with Jim. How will they ever explain Jill?
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch
Chapter Five
A Visitor From the East
I knew something was up when Debbie came to the door at 2:00 in the afternoon.
“Tony’s coming to Omaha,” she said.
One of the partners? Why is he coming back so soon? He was in charge of fifteen offices like mine and made a visit to each office, every six months.
At one time, I had valued our friendship and admired him. About a year ago, I had been told by a trusted source that Tony had used his position, to have sex with at least two National Corporation employees.
Supposedly, he had been able to buy his way out of trouble. Both women allegedly had been paid off and then left the company. Somehow his partners hadn’t found out and/or taken action. He’s a slick, that much I know from personal observation. The rest is an unsubstantiated rumor.
National Corporation is closely held, and not publicly traded. Tony had told me that Jerry, Austin, Karl, and he owned the entire company, each having twenty-five percent of the stock.
At company meetings that were held in Boston, the employees were required to wear a company tie or scarf in the color of their team. The teams consisted of all the people who worked in those divisions that were managed by a particular partner.
Tony’s team color was yellow.
The company had no managing general partner, as they had split the management duties for the company, into four equal parts. Periodically the teams were pitted against one another to create a positive competitive spirit.
A few of the company ties and scarves had a stylized ST embroidered on them. It was some kind of badge of distinction. The home office gave them out. But they wouldn’t tell us the criteria for earning the ST designation. A person’s title didn’t seem to matter.
Tony had laughed one time when I had asked him how I could get one. “I seriously doubt you’ll ever be awarded a ST tie,” he had said.
As I was accustomed to winning I had been taken aback by his attitude. I assumed the ST stood for superlative: largest, biggest, best, or most. Our office performed admirably, but somehow no one in my division had been awarded an ST tie.
Every now and again, I saw a new ST tie or scarf on someone from either the home office or some other division. They weren’t awarded in public, so it was a mystery to me, and everyone I asked.
Perhaps I’ll be awarded a tie for the Taste of France. If so, I’ll refuse the honor. I don’t want an award for initiating a sexist idea.
“Tony wants to meet with you and your doctor to talk about your prognosis,” Debbie said. “The home office is impressed with how you’ve handled things, from your sickbed. They don’t want to lose you, to some virus.”
Debbie had taken us to a coffee shop. She was having a Latte. I was drinking Evian.
“How’s the office doing?” I asked, feeling guilty that I hadn’t thought about it in weeks.
“I made a pact with Sarah and Anne that we’d never talk about work, with you,” she said. “Your obsession with work was a big part of your shortcomings.”
Why had she chosen the word “obsession?” I had bathed with a bar of Obsession soap that morning. When Obsession is used sparingly it is a truly wonderful scent. When overused, it has an obnoxious odor somewhat like kerosene.
I smell okay, which is a big personal issue. I had once used scents to feel sexy. But I had changed during my stay in the motel, to where my top priority was to smell clean. If I could have found a perfume that smelled like bedding just taken off a clothesline, it would have been my favorite. Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps used sparingly was close. “Blue” by Ralph Lauren also seemed to almost meet that description.
“I can tell you this much,” she said. “The office is meeting, or exceeding, every goal that you had established.”
I was a goal setter: long-term, short-term, interim, individual, and office. The goals I had established were far above the goals set by the home office. With what Debbie is telling me, I can’t imagine why Tony is making the trip to see me. He could have easily taken the doctor’s report by phone.
He and I can’t possibly meet face-to-face without him noticing some of the changes. How will he react? I like what has happened to me, but I’m not at all confident Tony will understand.
“Do you think we could use a room, in the hospital where I had my nose fixed?” I had conceived the early stages of a plan that involved a dark hospital room and a short visit, because of my “extremely frail” condition. We needed to buy time to create a strategy, for Jill, to gradually integrate into National Corporation.
“That won’t be necessary,” Debbie said. “We’ve got an idea. Jim will supposedly be in the hospital. Jill will be Tony’s date.”
“What!”
“You know how Tony is with women.”
I nodded. Evidently, Debbie has heard some of the same gossip I have about Tony’s philandering. I had never discussed the rumors with anyone in our office. My sources were two other divisional managers.
“We need you to get him in a compromising position,” Debbie said. “We’ll create an opportunity for him to be his awful self — with your cousin - Jill.”
“You’re crazy,” I said, gently. “He’ll know who I am in a second and have all of us fired. He knows that the four of us are close. He’ll assume a conspiracy. Why don’t I meet him, at the airport, dressed as I am today?” I was wearing a white embroidered, marine-stripped skirt and navy linen ruffle pullover blouse. It was something I found the day before. I just had to wear it immediately. “I’ll explain everything to him.”
“The man’s a pig. He won’t be the least bit compassionate.”
I was shocked by Debbie’s abrupt condemnation. “He doesn’t have to be compassionate, he just needs to be prudent,” I said. “National Corporation needs us more than we need them. The non-competes we entered into when we sold to them will expire, in four months. If he doesn’t like what he sees, and makes a problem -- we can leave and start over. Our clients will follow.”
“Yes, we can make it without National Corporation’s support. But there are bigger considerations.” She looked away and seemed to be composing herself. What was coming apparently would not be easy for her to say. “Tony needs to be stopped. You can do it.”
Me? Stop Tony? “Do you want me to go to the other partners?” I asked.
“We don’t trust them -- any more than we do Tony. Something isn’t right, we need to get him, and you can do it.”
I assumed there were reasons that I didn’t know yet why my friends wanted me to pull this scam. Looking into her eyes I found the confidence I needed, to consider her ideas.
During the ordeals with creating and then selling our business, I had been the “main man.” Every decision had followed my lead. Things were very different after the last few weeks. I could never be like that again. I had bonded with them. We were a true team, and we would reach a consensus before acting. I was willing to follow any lead that made sense.
“He won’t know you,” Debbie said. “You’ve lost thirty-five pounds. With the proper padding and foundation assistance, you have a lovely figure. Your new hair color is all woman. The way you carry yourself is entirely different and your voice matches the rest of you.”
I could see by her eyes that she was telling the truth. There wasn’t a twitch in sight.
“Two things,” she said. “First, your teeth have to be fixed.”
“My teeth?” Although they weren’t the whitest, I had a nice set of teeth.
“You have very distinctive teeth, Jill. We need to make them ‘un-distinctive.’ They need to be capped. Also, we think you need glasses.”
“I have perfect vision.”
“That’s just it. We want you to be a ‘perfect vision’ for Tony.” Debbie grinned.
Obviously, she’s relishing the idea of using me as bait for Tony, much more than I am. To Debbie, it’s natural for a woman to entice a man into a position she wants him to be in. But it’s almost impossible for me to imagine myself having feminine wiles.
She went on with their plan. “Tony is arriving on a late afternoon flight. Sarah and I will pick him up at the airport. We’ll tell him he can’t see you until the next morning because of hospital rules. We’ll take him to the hotel. Plans and reservations will have been made in advance for him to go out on the town with Anne, Sarah, and me. Jill would be brought along for the evening as she supposedly is living with Sarah until she can find her own place. You will be introduced as Jim’s cousin, who is just starting with National Corporation. The evening will be something of a company orientation for ‘her’ – er – you.”
“Sounds risky.”
“It won’t be. Tony will have plenty to drink and ample opportunity to hit on you. You will be served up like a blue-plate special. He’ll think you’re young, single, and impressed by his position. Sarah and Anne will beg off early. You and I will go to Tony’s room, with him. I’ll get a phone call that supposedly is from home -- informing me of some minor catastrophe involving my daughter. I’ll leave you alone with Tony.”
“Alone? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“The room will be bugged and equipped with a camera to catch Tony’s every move. I’ll be next door waiting until he makes an offer a good girl would refuse, and BOOM. . .. We’ll have him on film sexually harassing a new employee. We will then have options.” Debbie said. “We’ll teach him a lesson and solve our current dilemma.”
I don’t really know what Debbie has in mind as options. Judging from what she’s pulled on me I have great faith that the options will be good for us and bad for Tony. Amazingly enough, the “teach him a lesson” part sounds like a great idea to me, even though I’m not sure what transgressions we’re talking about. Am I becoming part of the women’s club? It seems so --- and what we’re planning seems so right.
“Why me?” I asked. “Why don’t one of you, who have the right plumbing, set the trap?”
“Your plumbing,” Debbie said, blushing, “will never become an issue. There are valid reasons that it would be impossible for Anne to do it, believe me. It would be a stretch for Tony to believe that Sarah and I suddenly want him. We’ve sent him plenty of signals -- that we don’t.”
I knew that Debbie wouldn’t tell me more about Anne, and I had seen Sarah and Debbie almost snub Tony, in the past.
“We need legal advice to avoid our deception being ruled entrapment,” I said. “You should bring in the best. Rebecca’s the best, by far.”
“I agree. We need her help.”
“Be honest with me, Debbie. Has everything we’ve been through together, over the past few weeks, been about settling some sort of score, with Tony? Was it him that said something terrible to Anne the night of the Taste of France?”
“I’m not at liberty to say what happened to Anne. We did what we needed to do to give you a chance to find your place in life. The process honestly had nothing to do with Tony -- until now. His coming back to Omaha so soon is purely coincidental and is as much a surprise to us as it is to you. We thought our process with you would have been finished long before his next visit. I wish I could be more open with you. I’ve probably told you more than I should have, as it is.”
Debbie didn’t ask for my trust. I just gave it to her.
***
My mouth was fixed with “Chiclets.” I became a dazzling Scarlett Johansson.
Debbie was right as usual. The clear-glass eyeglasses were a good touch, in that they softened my face, and gave me an entirely new image.
We spent hours shopping for the perfect outfit. Everything was new from the skin out. Even though I would stop Tony’s advances long before he got to my undergarments, I would be more confident if my lingerie was sexy. It would definitely be a silk-stocking evening.
The skirt we picked stopped just above ankle length. It was a Dolce & Gabbana -- a steal at $949. Its movement gave me the look of a young girl. It was lined with pure silk that rustled as I walked.
Anne said that the French word for that sound was froufrou.
The skirt featured a sultry slit seam on the left side with two flowers on the hip. There was a row of vertical buttons that added the ultimate feminine touch. With the skirt, we selected a Natasha naked v-neck cashmere sweater, with long sleeves. It suggested I was a bit younger than we all knew me to be.
My jewelry was a plain gold chain and small gold button earrings. I had found black Brazilian boots with six-inch uppers and a one-inch heel. They were glove-soft and looked a little like granny boots -- but had a more stylish square toe.
I wanted to wear a long enbeetah bias skirt with zebra print, done on a burnout velvet. With it, I could have worn a chocolate brown top that would have stopped traffic. It was decided I should be more demure.
I was close to ready.
***
“You have to take off your wedding ring, for your night, with Tony.” Debbie said.
It was the day before Tony was scheduled to arrive. We were having a double mocha treat at Crossroad’s and were sitting across from each other, at a small round table.
I was okay with everything that we had planned, up until that point. The week before, I had my ring downsized because of my weight loss. The fifteen minutes it was in the jeweler’s hands was the first and only time I had taken it off since our wedding ceremony, other than washing.
As Debbie spoke, Jackie’s face floated in my mind. I miss her. I miss our kids. I miss our home and my dog Champ.
Tears pooled in my eyes as I worked the band around my finger. Taking off my wedding ring seemed to be a very serious betrayal of our vows.
Debbie reached across the table. She sensed what I was thinking and gave my hand a squeeze.
“Soon, Jill. Soon everything will be taken care of. You’ve come so far.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can do this. After my date with John, I thought a lot about what might have happened if the evening had gone on. I’m not so sure.... I’ve never thought of myself as homosexual or bi-sexual. But Debbie - I was attracted to John that night.” Tears betrayed my fear of what I had found out about myself. My confession had been painful. But it was a relief to have finally told someone.
“Are you afraid you might be a latent homosexual?”
“I’m a man who loves wearing women’s clothing. What do you think?”
“Jill, your lovely outfit will only help you catch a man, if you want it to. What you wear isn’t a factor in sexual preference. Despite what you’ve seen on TV, most women dress to impress other women, or to make themselves feel better. They’re rarely dressed to seduce a man.”
She’s right. How silly of me to mix those thoughts in my mind. My heart raced and my head spun as I tried to think of anything I knew about myself that was rock solid.
“I’m really scared,” I said. “I don’t know if I can stand to find out who I really am. I don’t want to be an effeminate homosexual and I don’t think I’m homophobic. I love Jackie. I want our marriage to go on and on. Is there some other way? I just don’t know.”
“You’ve been through a lot. Jackie knew you would be challenged. She knew you would have to experience certain things, to move forward, to a life that would work for your family.”
I tried to compose myself. They’re counting on me. Whatever I am -- I am. It’s time to face up to whatever that is.
Debbie took an envelope from her purse. For a moment, I thought it was the same letter from Jackie I had read weeks ago. Those few weeks now seemed like a lifetime.
The envelope was addressed to Jill: My Husband.
Dear Jill:
I’m so proud of you. You are amazing.
I have been impressed by everything your friends and you have accomplished, over the years. What you are doing now is mind-boggling.
We have a future. I look forward to sharing the rest of my life with you.
They’ve told me about Tony. I know how you’ve felt about his lack of moral fiber and I think what you are doing is great.
Jill — you do whatever you have to — to teach that man a lesson.
My work at the Woman’s Resource Closet has shown me the damage people like him inflict on others. He has to be stopped.
If you have to — well, just do what you have to.
I love you and will love you even more no matter what this involves.
I Love You.
I miss you.
Jackie
P.S. The kids have been told that your illness has made some drastic changes in you. They are prepared for a much different Daddy when you come home. They’ve seen recent pictures of you and have been told that the treatment for your virus has changed you into a woman. They think it will be cool to have two moms. They’ve never seen you so happy as in those pictures. Hurry home when you’re ready.
I had read online of men on hormones becoming emotionally unstable. I wasn’t on hormones and I didn’t think I was unstable. I was just happy, and my body was reacting in a normal way for a woman. I cried tears of joy, relief, and love.
I slipped off my ring. “Debbie, please give this to Jackie. Tell her I will be home soon, to have her place it back on my finger.”
Debbie wrapped my ring in a napkin and put it in her purse.
I got up from the table and then walked to the ladies’ room to fix my face. The click of my heels on the ceramic tile floor of the food court assured me I was going in the right direction.
***
They did a great job at the salon the afternoon, before our night with Tony. With the right hairstyle and youthful make-up, I looked like someone who might predict the weather, on the local news.
The only bump in the evening was the unexplained absence of Anne.
Tony asked me several times where she was, and I truthfully had no idea. Sarah said Anne was ill, which must have come on suddenly.
I was into my role, and my girlish desires were bubbling to the surface. I allowed my feigned emotions to show completely. My competitive drive was muted, so Tony had the floor all to himself.
I was one of the girls -- and a perfect target for Tony. I did my best to stay as far away from him, as possible.
Even so, Tony seemed to be attracted to me. He flirted incessantly.
Everything went like clockwork.
Sarah left citing an early morning.
Debbie made it seem perfectly natural for the three of us to end the evening in Tony’s room.
It was as if I was the star in a Debbie Nobisky production of “The Life and Times of Jill.” I was that movie character that you only know enough about, to allow the plot to move forward -- like the girl next door, in the horror movie, that opens the door everyone knows she shouldn’t.
Tony had ordered liver pate and wine from room service, so his spacious suite reeked of cold meat and fermented grapes.
The bulge in Tony’s pants and the number of times he had found reasons to touch my arms and shoulders, indicated that Tony considered me to be attractive.
Even though I knew of his track record with women, I was somewhat flattered by the impact I was having on his libido. My fingers were clumsy -- trying to hold my glass, as my heart was telling me to flee -- by pumping excess amounts of blood to my thighs. I covered for my nervousness by concentrating on projecting the image of an ultra-cool girl who had seen it all. That image was something I thought a young woman would try to assume.
When the pre-set call came in for Debbie, giving her an excuse to leave, I started to have second thoughts. Will I really know what to do? Can I send all the subtle messages needed to keep him sexually started? Can I do it? The plan is for me to pretend to be leaving with Debbie so that Tony can talk me into staying, sealing the validity of my role.
For a moment, I wasn’t pretending as I moved toward the door. I’m afraid of Tony. He isn’t a big man. When he and I had played racquetball at the home office court we were about equal athletes. With my weight loss, he outweighs me by about fifty pounds.
Before I could get out of the room, Tony begged me to stay, for one more drink.
Game on!
He said that we had “something” to discuss.
I had a pretty good idea what that something would be. My legs refused to carry me back toward him and away from Debbie, who was standing with me, at the door.
“Have another drink, Jill,” Debbie said. “You’ll be okay. We all trust Tony.”
It must have killed her to say that.
Her lie jolted me out of my terror. As soon as I moved back into the room, Debbie hastily said her goodbyes and then left.
Debbie had been to Rebecca’s office several times, without me, for conferences about our strategies. With Rebecca’s help, we had made improvements to our original plan.
Even though I hadn’t had the chance to personally meet with Rebecca, I agreed with what she had suggested.
We couldn’t afford any doubt as to Tony’s intent. Debbie had researched the details of the sexual harassment law.
I had to trade sexual favors for advancement with the company, in order for the case to have sufficient gravity. That would involve more than kissing or heavy petting.
Debbie and Sarah were actually in the next room, with a key to the adjoining doors.
Sarah had brought a stun gun, so all I had to do to bring her into the room was shout, if things got out of hand. I hoped Tony’s “thing” would soon be in my hand and the whole ordeal would be over. Our plan was for me to follow his instructions, which we assumed would be for me to give him a handjob.
I wasn’t totally sure I could touch his penis when the time came for him to come.
Under no circumstances would Debbie or Sarah come in -- unless I called for them.
If need be, I would take all night to implicate him.
Once we had the incident on tape, we would get him to voluntarily resign or change his ways, and I would have good leverage for corporate acceptance as Jill.
Once Tony and I were alone, he wasted no time making me a stiff drink. Judging by his crotch, my drink wasn’t the only stiff thing. We sat on the couch, and he immediately placed his arm around me -- causing his body’s heat to invade my space.
“Jill, you’re just starting on a brand-new exciting career with National Corporation. Tell me about your personal ambitions. Where do you want to be --five to ten years from now?”
I described the kind of career someone like faux Jill would want, carefully keeping my stated aspirations within realistic parameters, for the average employee.
As I talked, Tony played with my hair. “Is your sweater cashmere?” He asked. “It’s very soft.” He was fondling my shoulder and fingering my bra-strap.
I pretended not to notice.
“Jill, you’ve got to start thinking bigger. Someone with your personality and obvious talent can go a lot further than you think.”
Talent? He knows nothing about “Jill” other than what he can see in front of him. All doubts as to Tony’s reputation were fading with each stroke of his hand. He seemed determined to have his way with me. When will we start playing Let’s Make a Deal?
“Jill, do you know anything about office politics? Do you know what it means to attach yourself to the right coattails?”
Here we go. I know what he’s getting at. I had laughed over beers when one of the guys had used the old bromide, It’s not who you know - it’s who you gnaw. “Should I attach myself to your coattails, Mr. Warran?” I smiled, hoping I was being alluring.
Tony answered -- by probing my ear with his tongue.
No doubt he’s searching for my talent. Much to my surprise and dismay, I was becoming aroused.
He pulled in his tongue and gave me an unctuous smile. “Jeez, Jill. Call me Tony. I allow everyone who works under me, to call me Tony.”
Works under him? Is that phrase loaded, or what?
“It’s hot in here,” he said. “Do you mind if I get comfortable.” He got up to remove his jacket. In doing so he stuck his crotch as close to my face as he could.
I could smell the aroma of his manhood. The time was coming when I would have to touch him.
He turned off the lamps that were on both ends of the couch. “Jill,” he said, as he sat down. “I’ve been thinking about creating a new position in Boston. You might be just the person. Of course, there would be a large raise, in store for you. You would be my personal assistant. Your private office would be adjoining to mine. It would be an office suite, for my sweet.”
I giggled in forced appreciation, of his lame joke. “I don’t know. I sort of have a significant friend here. I’m not sure that I’d like to leave Omaha.”
“You’d love Boston. I could be your boyfriend, Jill. Would you like that? We could go to the Boston Pops and Celtic games. Boston is a great town. If you’re with the right person.”
It was clear Tony thought he was Mr. Right for me.
“My home life has been lousy lately,” he said. “Our kids are away to college and my wife has let herself go. I think she’s having an affair with the man who does our lawn. She’s not like you, Jill.”
I’ll bet she isn’t!
“Jill, do you believe in love at first sight?” Somehow his hand had found its way under my skirt. He rubbed my thigh.
Aaahhhh. I’m thankful I decided on silk stockings. I wonder if the friction between his fingers and my skin is as soft and tingly for him as it is for me.
He plucked my glasses off my face. His eyes showed no sign of recognition. I giggled again as I remembered the old doggerel.
Men don’t make passes,
At girls, who wear glasses.
Tony must have thought I was giggling because he was tickling me through my sweater. He looked at me and grinned.
Men are so egocentric.
I was in his arms.
His kisses weren’t as passionate as John’s had been, but they were oddly sweet.
I could tell he was trying to give me pleasure.
His hands were all over my body, and his caressing wasn’t all that hard to stand. He was gentle, yet firm. He was very firm, as I could tell by the hardness pushing against my thigh.
I was happy that I had taken the precaution of wearing a gaff. From self-exploration, I knew the breasts he fondled felt real, right down to the erect nipples.
“Mr. Warran -- Tony -- please stop. You’re rushing things. I’m a woman of virtue. Tony, I’m not stupid. What would happen if I moved to Boston and you got tired of me?”
“That just wouldn’t happen. I’m going to have to pull some strings to get you the assistant’s job. I won’t be able to just dump you. What would people say? You and I seem to have something special between us. This could become something permanent.”
“I’m new to working in business, Tony. Are you saying all I have to do is have sex with you and my career is set?”
“It’s that simple, Jill.”
It had been easy. All I had to do was whack him off, and we had him.
He gently pulled me from the couch to the king-sized bed common to the executive suites Tony always rented. The bed was a four-poster, an early American style that was sometimes called a cannonball bed. He tugged at my sweater, trying to get it over my head.
His desire to see me naked set aside my interest in identifying the furniture.
“You first.” I dodged out of his arms. Undoing his belt, I pulled it from his pants. I fumbled like someone who had never undressed a man before, even though I had undressed one, at least once a day for thirty-five years. I slid off his tie and loosened his shirt buttons. Reaching down, I untied and removed his ever-present wingtips. His foot powder had a pleasant aroma.
We maintained eye contact. He smiled like he was possessed, as I slipped off his pants.
My hands brushed his penis. Ewww. It had already created a damp spot on his boxers. Can I really take his penis in my hand and do — that?
He helped me take off his shirt. Tony looked simple-minded in his black socks, wife-beater undershirt, and boxers. . .with a raging hard-on.
I was still fully dressed and intent on staying that way. As I peeled off his socks, I thought briefly about sucking his toes. I had seen a woman do that in a movie. I wasn’t quite sure about the toes, so I did something to him I loved having done to me. I removed his undershirt and placed my head on his chest. “I love a man’s chest. You have such a nice body.”
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His cock flinched - - a good sign.
I outlined his nipples with my manicured fingernails, licking his entire chest from just above his navel to his neck. The small, tight curls of my girlish hairstyle framed my vision and lightly brushed his skin. I gradually centered on his nipples, chewing -- and then sucking.
He tasted faintly metallic and smelled of Right Guard. Not bad, but rather pedestrian.
All the while, I watched his eyes to monitor his satisfaction. The light coming from the partially open door to the bathroom allowed me to see him.
He didn’t blink.
I was being turned on by his adulation. I wanted to be considered lovable.
Finally, I took off his boxers.
Tony isn’t hung like a horse. Men like to drink beer and say, “Gawd. That sum-bitch’s hung like a horse.” It’s a heterosexual thing. Even though he isn’t in the equine arena, he’s no slouch. Tony’s erect cock was about nine inches long and about the diameter of a fifty-cent piece.
Tony held my right hand, squeezing it gently as I munched on his titties. He slowly guided it down.
I shouldn’t have worried so much. I know what to do. It was very smooth, warm, and familiar. Glancing down at my hand wrapped around him, I saw long, painted nails, on an exotic woman’s hand.
The power that was “him” pulsated, in appreciation of my touch.
Tony moved my face to his and then kissed me, playing with my tongue.
I moaned partly to fulfill the role I was playing and partly from lust. My body is stirred. Yes, I want to make sure we have good evidence on film, but there is electricity. As I immersed myself into the role, I found it easier and easier to grind my body into his.
Tony throbbed in my hand. Very pleasant. He’s aroused by my femininity. He’s accepted me as a woman -- and I lust for more of his intense approval.
I could sense my power. My fingertips paid special tribute to his knob. From years of zealous practice with instant feedback, I knew how to jerk him off. I appreciate the tantalizing value of a slow stroke. I’m thankful I had been using lotion, on my hands.
Even though Tony, with all his casting couch experience, was taking economic advantage of Jill, it was really Jill -- who was at the helm.
Tony stopped kissing me.
I don’t want him to. I’m enjoying the contact. Have I done something wrong? Am I losing control? What do I need to do to get him to kiss me again?
He pushed my head down to his chest.
Ah. He wants me to suck on his tits some more. I readily complied.
With something else in mind, he pushed my head further south. He wasn’t using a great deal of strength – but insistently directed me to where he wanted me to go.
I want to pleasure him, but I have my limits.
I looked into what had been a smiling face.
He had adopted the look of someone who was in absolute command. He wasn’t frowning. But I knew who the boss was.
“Jill, I think we’ve already developed a special connection. One of the reasons I’m leaving my wife is her aversion to oral sex. You don’t have a problem with oral sex. Do you?”
There it is -- an addendum to my work contract. Paragraph 8. Section A. Sub-Section 2. To gnaw me is to love me: Should the party of the first part (you) want the pre-stated home office job offered by the party of the second part (me). The party of the first part (you) shall let your lips do your talking and your tongue start a-licking.
Jackie’s letter. . . . What Tony wants me to do must be the “do what you have to” she had written about. Offer made / offer accepted. We would have a valid contract, as soon as I paid the consideration.
There’s no question what I have to do. If I had proved anything to myself during my journey from Jim to Jill, it was that I was adaptable. The plan had just changed.
Every story I had read that included oral sex mentioned the taste of the pre-come. The reports were right. It was salty. Peanuts! Popcorn! Penis!
I licked his lengthy log like a love lollipop, twisting it with my tongue. How will I ever get that entire thing in my mouth without gagging?
He didn’t seem to mind the time I spent lingualing him.
I attended to his balls, buffing them with my mouth. He’s a clean man and tastes fresh.
I expected him to close his eyes and fantasize. It’s said that turkeys fantasize they’re with swans when they’re having sex with their mates.
Tony obviously was thinking about me. He didn’t close his eyes for even a second.
I was proud of the pleasure I was giving him. Proud that he wanted to be with me. I wasn’t at all conflicted about what I had to do. I had signed on as the woman for the job. My job description had just been changed to cocksucker. Cocksucker. That word has been used so much it seems to have lost its original meaning. I was about to graphically define the term.
I sucked the tip of him into my mouth. He let out a groan that started just inches above my head, vibrating deep in his chest.
Could it be that his wife really won’t give him a blowjob? Hopefully, he’ll discharge quickly and I’ll be done.
On the other hand, I dreaded the idea of his come squirting into my mouth. My tongue danced around his cock’s head, as I lightly scraped my teeth over its ultra-smooth skin. I tried different pressure and varied the cadence of my mouth’s strokes.
His reactions told me that he loved everything I did.
I loved everything I did. I was lickerish, as I greedily supped. I found the spot just to the rear of his scrotum and massaged his prostate first with my nose, then lips, and then finally with my fingers.
My mission was to give him as much pleasure as possible. I had crossed the line. This man had picked me as his woman and had actually hinted at marriage. Ever since John had let me know that I was someone special, I had ached to be a good woman.
I want to know what it means to please a man. I’m going to give Tony wonderful fellatio.
I wasn’t competing with anyone. I was merely trying to be a good woman. I had gone into the evening looking to help right a wrong -- and then had gone down a path I hadn’t seen coming.
I found the ridges on his penis and introduced myself to every contour and vein, as I took the time to make sure he was enjoying himself. Every time I sensed Tony’s oncoming orgasm I eased off. I wanted the moment to last - - for both of us. I lifted my head to get into a position, to take more of him.
He understood and helped. He was fucking my face, even though I was on top. His thrusts were insistent as he poked at the roots of my tongue while banging the roof of my mouth.
I sucked, licked, and nibbled. My world centered on his cock and his pleasure. I played with both of his little titties with my fingernails -- rolling them, pinching them, and loving how hard they got.
It was lucky for us that my broken nose had been fixed. It would have been impossible for me to get enough air had the operation not opened my nasal passages. Breathing through my mouth would have been impossible anyway, as it had much better things to do.
I reached under him and grabbed both of his cheeks -- massaging him and pulling him further toward me. I strained my neck to “Deepthroat” his entire length. I took my eyes off his face long enough to glimpse, in the mirror, his pole sliding in and out, wet with my saliva. The sight of his balls bobbing so close to my nose added to my fervor.
His back arched, and he was still for a second or two. His eyes squeezed shut. His cock shook. I knew what was "come-ing" and started to pull away. I wasn’t going to swallow his juices.
But Tony had other ideas.
He cupped my head with both of his hands and kept me impaled on his staff. I tried desperately to break free. I scratched at his chest with the fingernails of my left hand while I tried to dislodge his hands from my head with my right.
My fingernails had drawn blood on his chest.
As his come shot into my mouth, his eyes opened wide, and he looked down at my left hand.
As spurt after spurt jetted into my mouth, I could see a peculiar look spread across his face.
He knows!
I had no choice but to swallow his hateful semen. I could no longer look at him.
He finally released my head. With my eyes closed, I rolled off him onto my back. I closed my eyes and privately celebrated. It didn’t matter what he knew.
We had him.
I had pleasured my man.
He was moving around, but I paid no attention. No matter what he did it would be over in a moment. I would call out for Debbie, and we would let Tony know he was closed for business.
I opened my exhausted jaws to shout. Nothing came out.
Tony had grabbed me. He was holding a damp rag over my nose and mouth. I struggled but he had leverage; size. . .strength. . .rag. . .chloroform. . .. “Mmmph. . ..”
(In Part Six we realize that the attempt to teach Tony a lesson went wrong, wrong, wrong. Jill finds herself at his mercy. It appears Tony has none.)
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
The Handshake That Hides the Snake
The attempt to teach Tony a lesson went wrong, wrong, wrong. Jill finds herself at his mercy; and it appears Tony has none. Warning: note explicit sex, although the sex is not gratuitous, it is graphic.
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch
Chapter Six
Tony’s on Top
Tony was holding something under my nose that made me instantly alert.
“Jill, you’re just full of surprises.”
He was sitting next to me, on the bed, sounding high-spirited.
Boy, is he going to be surprised when he finds out what a huge hole he’s in.
As my head cleared, I found myself lying face down -- spread eagle. My hands and feet were tied to the bedposts with yellow National Corporation ties. My mouth was stuffed with what tasted and felt like my panties. They were tied in place with my stockings.
I was dressed in a red, satin nightgown that was pushed up to my waist. A brief struggle against the ties that bound me confirmed that it was no use. I tried to scream through the silk, realizing that Debbie wouldn’t be able to hear my muffled voice.
I hope Sarah and Debbie don’t expect me to be able to yell for them, with a gag in my mouth.
There was something greasy, in my rectum. By looking in the mirror, over the dresser, I could see that Tony had a finger up my butt! On the nightstand, there was an open jar of petroleum jelly, which explained what he was using for lubricant.
“Jill, Jill, Jill. You should have told me that you’re still a virgin. I’ve had my share of boys and your ass is tight. This is going to be a treat for both of us.”
A virgin? My ass is tight? No! He. . .Tony is going to rape me!
He looked pleased with himself as he went on talking, detached from the horror of what he was about to do. “I suppose, in your case, that makes you a trans-vestal virgin.”
I shuddered in reaction to the casual tone of his voice and his dismal attempt at humor.
“Jill, I thought your friends and you were much smarter. I’ve got to give you credit though. You went to great lengths to frame me. You really did a job on yourself.”
How does he know what we were trying to do to him?
“I was really fooled. With everything I knew, I should have known it was you -- much sooner. I suppose it had something to do with my being over-sexed. Jill, do you know that moment right after you get your rocks off -- that lucid instant when all your good sense rushes back into your head? Of course, you do. It’s called post-coitus depression. Back before you decided to become a cunt, I’m sure you had that experience -- many times.”
The word “cunt” was like a fist to my jaw. My mind went back to a conversation when I had used that word on my friends. What had been wrong with me?
“You know the feeling. You’ve just screwed somebody you normally wouldn’t give the time a day, and then you can’t wait to get away from her.”
I remember the feeling. Before I had gotten married, I did some things I’ll never do again. Gratuitous sex is so ugly.
“Now don’t go getting all upset. I don’t feel that way about you -- at all.” He rammed an additional finger into me -- as if to demonstrate his profound adoration. “I’m looking forward to screwing you on a regular basis: you, your wife, and those friends of yours.”
“MMMPHhhhh.” I growled into my panties, sounding as pathetic as the situation I was in. At least, I know he’ll get his, because we have him dead-to-rights.
Tony smiled as he continued to finger my ass. He was giving me the prostate exam of all times.
“You had me completely fooled. I don’t know if it was the sex thing or what, I had no idea little Jilly was really little Jimmy. You’re gorgeous. I wonder if subconsciously I was “a Freud” to know you were a ram in ewe’s clothing. Hahhaha. When you got my rocks off. . .. You’re going to have to do that again Jill. You really know how to suck cock. . . .when you were getting a mouthful of my semen, I noticed the scar on your left hand. Remember when I cut you with the tip of my racquet while playing racquetball? You got six stitches. I’ve always said that I have my brand on you. When I saw your hand, I knew exactly who it was swallowing my jism.”
He had left a slimy taste in my mouth. I was nauseous. My mind tumbled across the prairies of my circumstances and his. I sought the solid ground of knowing he was the one who was in trouble, despite our current positions.
“Luckily, I had my trusty chloroform in the drawer of the nightstand. A flip of the cap, a drop or two into a rag, and here you are. Tonight’s your lucky night.”
Good for-freaking-you! Despite what I’m going through, I’m joyfully anticipating how great it’ll be to see his face when he finds out all we have on him.
“You’ve always wanted one of those ST ties, and now you’ve earned yours. ST stands for Sex Toy. The other owners and I have a hobby of collecting Sex Toys. They’re going to love you. We share our toys. Austin is partial to boys and he’ll treat you right. You’re one of the special people we give both a tie and a scarf.”
Tony was caressing my chest with his other hand. My fake breasts had fallen off. I had known the adhesive was wearing out. It only lasted a few days. I hadn’t taken the time that afternoon to fix them. My bra kept them in place -- and they weren’t supposed to have come into play, as I gave him a handjob. My plan had been to restrict him to cop a feel through my sweater and bra.
“Your boobs fell off. I hope that doesn’t mean you have leprosy. Hee hee. If you treat Austin right, I’m sure he’ll spring for a proper set of tits for you. You know Roger Bemis in accounting? Austin gave him a boob job. Roger has to bind them down at work. He has a full C-cup.”
Roger Bemis is a C-cup, what planet am I on?
Tony was nibbling at the back of my neck.
I jerked my head from side to side -- making it a moving target.
“You really smell great.”
He’s seemingly undeterred by my struggles.
“I could get off just smelling your skin.”
Why? Oh, why had I used Heavenly? It was one of the Dream Angel trio from Victoria’s Secret. It was advertised as a blissfully romantic blend of soft florals. I hadn’t worn Heavenly since the day I had been taken captive. In preparation, for the night, with Tony, I had wanted to use something on my hands to make them exceptionally soft.
I had naively thought Tony would be content with a handjob. Heavenly Velvet Luxe Lotion always left my arms and legs soft, so I had decided to use it on my hands. I also spread a little over my body. I had forgotten what an impact it had on me, and obviously, it wasn’t hurting Tony’s libido, either. My scent was waving a red flag in front of a depraved bull.
Tony was still naked. His hard-on was ringed by red lipstick.
My lipstick! What had I done? How could I have had such passionate thoughts about pleasuring him? How could I have taken his penis into my mouth like that?
Despite everything, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I looked like the woman I had longed to be as a child. What would Julie Andrews do in my position?
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens.
From the attention Tony was giving my rectum it seemed I had become one of his Favourite Things.
Oh my! How will I look on camera? What will eventually become of the tape? I thought. I don’t want a jury to see me like I was, or doing what I had. All I can do is hope Debbie will burst in prematurely, to stop Tony from doing what he obviously has in mind.
“Austin has his Roger. He calls him Rosie. He looks a little like Rosie O’Donnell in his dresses, but Austin likes him. Jerry has Karen. Karen is Paul Shane. Paul is an IT expert in our Buffalo office. I call him RuPaul because he’s black and – well -- you understand. Karl has had his Bess for years. Bess is getting older now. You know Bess. He’s been to your office.”
I frowned, in an effort, to recall all of the older men, from the corporate office. I couldn’t think of anyone who might be Bess. I was having a hard time focusing on anything, other than the alien ambiance of Tony’s invasive fingers.
“Bess has audited your division’s books.”
Ralph Denoche? He’s almost seventy. His green corporate tie does have the ST logo. Green is Karl’s division’s color. I had noticed the ST on Ralph’s tie and wondered how someone as unimaginative as him could win a distinguished award.
“Now I have my own boy toy. You’re the best of the bunch, by far.”
Tony’s animated.
I would say he’s full of himself, but at the moment I’m fuller -- of him.
“I’m never going to be able to keep you to myself. That’s okay. We always share our things.”
Tony knew where the prostate was and was sending shocks through my body. I had never known about an e-spot there. “Unnhhhh!”
“You will be my fifteenth Tie. That’s what we call you people - - Ties. I’m now in the lead. Karl has nine Ties. Jerry has eleven. With you, Jackie, Debbie, and Sarah I’ll have eighteen, which will put me even with Austin for first place. I have a rule about not fucking attorneys, or I’d add Rebecca to my harem.”
He had left out Anne!
He seems to know a lot about our plans. She must have turned us in. No wonder Anne isn’t with us. He must have had something over her. She’s too nice a person to sell us out, without an extremely good reason.
No! I’m wrong. Anne wouldn’t betray us. There has to be another explanation.
“When I got into my room this afternoon, I did my normal check for microphones and cameras. When you’re playing the kind of game we play, you become attuned to those things. You’re really a rank amateur at this. Putting the microphone in the lampshade is so passé. The same goes for that camera you had in the overhead light fixture. It was easy to disable both of them.”
No camera? No mike? We’re in deep trouble. We have nothing on him. He can claim that our sex scene had been between two consenting adults. No jury will believe a transvestite’s “virtue” had been compromised.
Imagining the jury’s response to my cross-dressing made my butt pucker --- or maybe it was the undulation of Tony’s two fingers.
“You must have thought I was a real idiot playing into your trap. I guess I was a bit of a Bozo for not recognizing you right away. Had I recognized you, I still would have gone along to get that blowjob. Hey - - you and your little pals did ‘blow your job,’ especially you, Jilly. Hehahhahhe. I can guarantee you -- had I had any doubt about the existence of a camera or mike you wouldn’t have heard such incriminating comments coming from my lips. I thought ‘Jill’ was setting me up for Jim. I never suspected you were — you are Jim - Jill. It was fun imagining you congratulating yourself. I knew if I kept talking, you would keep putting out. And you did put out.”
I heard a soft moan and glanced around. That was me. I was beginning to realize how bad a fix I was in. And -- all the poking was making me hot. The eight weeks without sex had created a reservoir of desire, in my body.
Tony had finished fiddling with my ass and was using a washrag to cleanse his hands.
He rubbed my feet with an odorless lotion. Despite everything, the massage felt wonderful.
I don’t have a lot of muscle tone left, after all the dieting. What muscles I do have are being pushed, shoved, and kneaded.
Somewhere along the line, Tony had to have been a masseur. He was moving up to my calves.
I was bound tight and unwilling, yet he was spending a great deal of time in foreplay.
He’s psychotic.
“That’s right. Let all the tension leave your body. We’ve got all night. You’ve got great legs, Jill. They’re silky smooth.”
Psychotic or not, he’s pushing the right buttons. I’m behaving like a tramp. I shouldn’t be taking pleasure, in any of what he’s doing. But oooohhh. If he flips me over, and massages my pole, I’ll go off like a Roman candle.
Fortunately, I had a full-body wax. He won’t be put off by stubble.
Damn it, Jill, control yourself. He’s an ass.
“You probably are wondering how I caught on to your plan -- well I guess it really wasn’t all planned by you, was it, Jill? You had considerable help.”
His hands were working on my upper thighs and my body was quivering.
Perhaps he won’t try to stick himself in me. Maybe he’ll just jerk me off. That won’t be so bad.
“Not talking, huh.”
He wants to tell me everything, to carefully explain to me what a fool I am compared to him.
I’m in no position to stop him -- or to argue with his assumptions.
“It was your credit cards. When Debbie, Anne, Jackie, and Sarah decided to make you into a full-time woman, they took your credit cards to pay for the expense. Two of the cards with your name on them, were really corporate cards. You’ve been running up some big numbers. That outfit for tonight probably cost over two grand. When the extraordinary bills started coming in, the credit card company called our audit department for authorization. Bess told Karl -- and then Karl told me.”
Damn! I didn’t think to tell Sarah, Anne, or Debbie which credit cards were my personal cards, and which belonged to National Corporation.
“We had Bess fly to Omaha to track things down. Without telling the girls his real reason for being here, he conducted a comprehensive fraud audit. He found a substantial number of phone calls placed to a lawyer by the name of Rebecca Turner, with no corresponding invoices for service rendered. Together, he and I made several calls of our own. I forged the necessary documents to put it all together. Getting a copy of the complaint and the release you signed from Rebecca Turner’s firm was the real key. I got that by having my secretary pretend, on the phone, to be Debbie. She asked them to send another copy to Debbie’s house. We simply stole Debbie’s mail. My secretary, Rose, was my first ‘Tie.’”
He sounds like a teenager bragging about his sexual conquests. How can a man who had built such a large business -- be so immature? How could I have been so brainless?
“At first, we thought you were the victim of extortion. As we dug deeper, we realized you had to be at least partially voluntarily going along with what was being done to you. I knew you were running around in women’s clothing, and yet I didn’t recognize you, until after you sucked my dick.”
Thanks for reminding me. . .again.
“I thought I would have to pump Anne for more information. Now I’ll just be content to pump all of you. If you get my drift.”
Oh my. It sounds like Anne did compromise us, after all. Anne apparently hadn’t told him much, yet he seemed to know everything. Why wasn’t she going to be number nineteen? Unless. . ..
“You look so nice spread out like this. You remind me of the way I took Anne after your big French party.”
TONY RAPED ANNE! And I thought she was upset over something he had SAID! I had made the typical male assumption that Tony had been running a casting couch, with willing participants. I had made Anne a target for the dizzy bastard, with those stupid maid costumes. It’s no wonder they all were so mad back when they first started to help me. Poor Anne! That must be why she didn’t show tonight. She can’t look him in the face.
How could I have made another girl do something that ultimately caused her so much pain?
“I never would have thought of Anne as a sex toy, if you hadn’t packaged her so exquisitely. Her tits hanging out of that maid’s uniform drove me wild. She had always been such a goody-two-shoes. I got Anne up here after the party. She was such an innocent. So trusting. She believed every word of a story I told her about having to leave first thing in the morning. She was up here to get some papers for you. I used a date helper. That’s what we call the drugs we put into our Ties’ drinks. But I’m sure you know all about that from what Anne’s told you. Anne was number fourteen for me. It would have been better for everyone, if she had kept her mouth shut. Now instead of revenge, you’ll get a permanent position in my ST Hall of Shame.”
I want one shot at his mouth, with a baseball bat.
“You people really spent a lot of money. That’s major fraud, Jill. After Bess and I get the final tally, we’re going to have Jackie, Debbie, Sarah, Anne and you down to the home office to formally award your ties and scarves. You’ll love the initiation ceremonies. Any problems from any of you, and you’ll all be going to jail, for a long time. With your new looks, you would have a husband, in jail, in seconds. You might even start a riot. Jill, the face that launched the come of a thousand cons. If you go to the police, you’ll not only end up in jail - you’ll also ruin the careers of at least one attorney and one doctor who were part of this conspiracy.”
He’s right about that. I’m certain he also realizes that his sex empire exists, on the edge of sword -- that can cut deeply both ways. The staggering risk is probably part of the excitement for those demented perverts.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get my pound of flesh from all the conspirators. But -- you know I’m good to my people. I’m really nice to my Ties. Hey, I’ll have to buy you one of those French outfits. I would love to see your sweet ass bouncing beneath that tiny skirt. Would you like that, Jilly? I bought that nightie you’re wearing, for Anne to use, tonight. You look really sexy in it. It’s like it was made for you. You’ll have to thank Anne, for standing me up. I’ll have to remind her about the tapes that I made last time. They’ve been edited especially for her mom and dad. I think they would find them very enlightening. If Anne stands me up again, we might have to find out.”
Anne, sweet Anne. I looked in the mirror at the gown he had purchased, for her. It looked a lot like the limited-edition anniversary gown from Frederick’s. The one Anne and I had laughed at, during a much better time.
“When we’re done tonight, you will have to think of a way to earn some clothing to wear home. I used a knife to cut off what you were wearing. Too bad about your pretty underwear. You really looked good. Perhaps another of your special blowjobs will convince me to go out and get you something. How about that, Jill? Think about how much fun it will be to get down on your knees and ask my penis for a dress. Not to kiss and tell -- but Anne was very fetching when she begged me.”
He’s sick, but I’m even sicker. The more his hands run across my body, the stiffer my prick has gotten.
“Anne and you are about the same size now. Did she dress you in some of her panties and make you her little she/he?”
Anne had loaned me her clothes, but it hadn’t been sick and perverse like he’s making it sound. Nothing we’ve done has been filthy or disgusting, like him.
“The other partners and I have lots of ways of recruiting new Ties. When people get a little older and lose a step, they become vulnerable. We just have to keep raising the office production and profit goals. Our private eye uses excellent audio and video equipment. A few nights outside of a person’s home, and we know what their peccadillo is, if they have one. Some have more than minor sins. Once you know what they don’t want anyone to know, you can get them to do almost anything.”
Wow. They’re inhuman. And, they own us.
“We started years ago using things we found through surveillance to motivate people. We stumbled across a few employees with interesting sexual hobbies. They became high achievers at work -- and then at play. As money became less important, we concentrated our efforts on finding the best sex toys. It’s all very competitive. For a while tonight, I thought I was going to be able to force both you and your cousin Jim to be Ties. I was going to use a video camera to blackmail you. Once I found the camera and mike you were planning to use on me, I knew there was no need for videotape. I’m disappointed, in that a total of nineteen would have given me sole possession of first place. However, a find like you -- is worth a little disappointment.”
You can smell the fear coming out of my pores. I had caused all this crap with my stupid vanity. The Taste of France had led all of us into a dark, dark cavern. Debbie, Anne, Sarah, and Jackie are swept up in the tidal wave of my ruin.
“One other thing, Jill. My Ties give me half of their take-home pay. That’s the dues for being part of the Tie fraternity. I screw you and then you’re screwed by me, again, when I take your money. Speaking of screwed -- you’re about as ready as I could ever make you. And – I’m recovered and randy-ready.”
I deserve whatever Tony is going to do to me. That and much, much more. Yet, there’s no way he can ram his Johnson, into me. Two of his fingers are about two-thirds the size of his prick. My ass had been jam-packed with his two fingers. No matter what he thought he was going to do, it isn’t going to work. He’ll have to do something else for sexual satisfaction. If he makes a decision to stick his prick in my mouth again, I’m going to give him a Bobbitt.
“Just relax, Jill, this is your night to be a real woman. I’m going to take you places you’ve never been to before.”
Any question as to his intent ended as he coated his penis with Vaseline. After stroking himself, he wiped his hands clean with another washrag he had, on the nightstand.
He’s prepared. He probably has a Boy Scout badge in butt-fucking.
He climbed on top of me and then poked with his engorged penis.
For a moment or two, I was certain my anal ring would withstand his advances.
That part of my body is designed to expel things, not to accept them. He’ll never be able to get inside of me. Incredibly, I’m getting even harder. What is it with my penis? That thing has a mind of its own.
EIYI. . .. I. . .. Yeeeeee. . .. He’s popped through. He’s pushed into me up to his belly. I haven’t felt anything tear, but. . .. Ooowwwww. . .. I have to get him out! I’m going to burst! Has he gone crazy? He’s going to rip me wide open!
I bucked and kicked as hard as I could. I squeezed my rectum muscles, hoping to pinch his penis, so that he would have to pull out.
He pounded furiously.
I’ve become the female receptacle for his male plug.
I tried to find a position that would allow me to slide out from under him. I moved up, down, to the right, and to the left.
He was evidently quite experienced at bondage.
I had almost no mobility because of the way I was tied to the bedposts, but I was using every bit of the slack I had.
We had been at it for quite some time. Both of us were covered in sweat from our exertions. Our bodies were sliding easily over one another. Tony reached inside my nightgown to fondle my nipples.
I could feel them straining in his grasp. They grew in response to him rolling them between his forefinger and thumb.
Holy shit. I’m enjoying being screwed by Tony!
Wave after wave of bliss ran through me -- triggering multiple feminine mini orgasms. All my movement to escape had been pleasing Tony - and - me. Even though not a drop of jism had flowed from my cock, I had achieved sexual fulfillment, at least five times.
He had mucked around all the right spots.
My body hummed tunes I never knew existed.
His hot breath blew at the hair, on the back, of my neck.
I turned my head enough for him to grab my earlobe, in his teeth.
He didn’t bite hard, but I was fearful he would, if I moved my head again. At the very least he probably would tear out my earring. Like everything else, his bite and my subsequent fear were erotic.
“Oh, Jilly, Oh, Yes. . .yes. . .. Jilly, Jilly Jilly, unnnh. Oh my. . ..”
Fuck me, Tony. Fuck me. Fill me up and make me whole. Screw my eyes out. Fuck me until I drop. Give it to me. “Uhhhhhhh, anunhhhhhhhh.” That was the closest I could come to screaming. Had I been able, I would have awakened all of Omaha, with my sexual passion.
Tony was a wildman. He found a new cadence and fresh angles every few seconds. Just when I thought I had experienced everything there was, he carried me to another level. A warm spot in my heart believed he was bent on returning the favor of the blowjob I had given him.
I bit into the panties in my mouth trying to stem the flow of raw sex that had taken my body by surprise. I pushed hard against his thrusts taking every bit of him into me. I wanted more — more. . ..
The woman in the mirror was definitely a captive. However, she was also a very enthusiastic partner in what was happening. I reflected on my lust. I had never felt more feminine, riper, more, more. . .oh yes. . .more, please more.
MMMMmmmm. . .a hard man is good to find.
In my mind, I was in Jackie’s arms. She was making love to me in a way we had never tried. I heard Jackie say, “Jill, you smell so good and your skin is so soft. I love to make love to you. I want to make love to you until you come.”
I throbbed from my knees to my solar plexus. My entire body quaked as I shot a load, into the sheet. I pumped and pumped. Weeks of unsatisfied stimulation flowed from me. I closed my eyes and saw Jackie and the family playing with my dog. As I bucked, I lost the ability to breathe. My world spun. I could feel Tony’s sperm gushing inside me, in a futile search, for my non-existent eggs. I felt the late evening heat from a beautiful sunset, as I melted into the bed.
The next moment an awful clarity hit me with full force – post-coital depression. I wanted him out of me. I wanted him dead. I had been raped, and in all likelihood would be raped again, many times in the future. I cried. There’s no way out. I had become the woman I always wanted to be, only to be made a sex toy. Remorse was all that was registering.
Tony rolled off.
Guiltily, I felt one last rush of pleasure, as he pulled his still erect penis from within me. I had found a new low. Over the previous weeks, I had been reborn, only to become a sexual zombie for four fricking lunatics. . .a living dead.
A Sex Toy.
(In the seventh and final chapter we let the chips fall where they may. How and why does Jill become Gill and move to Boston?)
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
The Handshake That Hides the Snake
In the seventh and final chapter we let the chips fall where they may. How and why does Jill become Gill and move to Boston?
Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch
Chapter Seven
To ST or Not ST, That Is the Question
My face was buried in the mattress. Muffled sobs accompanied my free-flowing tears.
The delicate hand on my shoulder was too small, to be Tony’s.
Debbie’s White Diamonds perfume filled my nostrils. She was working on the knots in the neckties that were binding me, to the bed.
Sarah stood next to Tony with her stun gun. She crudely explained to him what would happen -- if she were to touch it to his penis.
He looked asinine with his erection still waving – horribly coated with semen -- evidence of what we’d just done.
I could hear someone speaking from behind Debbie.
It’s Rebecca!
“It’s all over, Jill. He’ll never do this to another woman.”
Little does she know. I pushed my face back into the bed trying desperately to be someplace else. Sure, we have Tony under the gun for the moment. But he’ll be back on top -- as soon as he tells them about disabling our monitoring equipment.
Debbie finished untying me.
Un “Tied.” If only it could be that easy. We’re Tied for life.
She covered me with a blanket and then led me from the bed to the loveseat. She cradled me in her arms and gently rocked me.
“It’s over Jill,” Debbie said. “You did it. You were great. You were better than I ever could’ve imagined. It all worked perfectly.”
I wanted to scream the dreadful truth, but I couldn’t. Debbie had removed the panties from my mouth. Yet, I was unable to find the energy to tell them.
I’ve failed everyone - - again. I’ve brought down my family and friends. Once they find out how badly I’ve ruined their future, they will want nothing to do with me.
I could feel an awful stickiness between my thighs where Tony’s juices were mingling with mine. The room reeked of sex.
If only I had been man enough to resist cross-dressing years ago, none of this would have happened. My karma is plainly bad.
Even with his penis in jeopardy, Tony spoke venomously. “You stupid bitches enjoy yourselves. Have your little moment. If Jim doesn’t tell you what I’m going to do to all of you -- I will. He knows how much trouble you’re in, with your clumsy attempts at espionage.”
It’s very odd being called “Jim.” I’ve fully accepted Jill as my name. I had been his “Jilly” only a moment before when he wanted sex. I feel even more violated.
“How about it… Jiimmm?” Tony asked, before yelling out in pain and dropping to the floor.
Evidently, Sarah didn’t like hearing Tony mocking me any more than I did. Or maybe she just wanted to see what a stun gun could do.
Tony rolled around, in obvious agony.
I involuntarily bent at the waist and pulled my knees together. Jeez! She’s really done it. There’s no telling what the partners will do to us, for revenge.
His penis was finally soft.
“That was unfortunate,” Rebecca said. “I think we can all agree it was necessary force.” Rebecca gave me a wink. “Your buddy Tony doesn’t know me very well, Jill.” To hear Rebecca call me “Jill” was soothing. She said it in a kind way that let me know we were part of the same team.
I’m no longer a good ol’ boy and it’s doubtful I’ll ever be again. No matter what happens – I’ll always be a woman. No matter what Tony and his partners do, Rebecca’s making me feel like we’ll find a way to deal with it.
Rebecca continued. “If Tony knew me, he would know I always have a belt to go with my suspenders.”
YES! Rebecca’s undefeated status is intact. We have him!
“That’s a two-way mirror,” Rebecca said, pointing to the large mirror I had used to watch Tony screw me. “We had this room specially equipped. Two video cameras have been rolling all night, on the other side of the mirror. There are three other microphones in this room. The camera and mike Tony found were planted where we knew he would look. We’ve videoed everything Tony did and recorded every word he said.”
“You fucking bitch!” Tony obviously was still in immense physical pain. Even so, it was clear that he had understood what she said and its implications.
“Tony, you’ve been a wonderful witness for the prosecution. Thank you.”
Rebecca has a gift for sarcasm.
My relief at being out of Tony’s grasp was suddenly overshadowed by my shame. Debbie and Sarah saw the way I had physically reacted to him. They watched everything. I can’t even look at them. They witnessed how eagerly I sucked Tony’s cock and the pleasure I had -- being screwed. The smell of sex damned me.
Tony tried to get up from the floor. But Sarah waved the stun gun in his face, and he dropped back down.
So much for negative stimuli not working to extinguish unwanted behavior. It had been quite effective, on at least one rat.
He knelt glaring up at Sarah.
“Your testimony tonight will surely lead us to more hard evidence that will prove you and your partners committed several dozen felonies,” Rebecca said. “You won’t be doing your time in a country club prison. Your crimes, which cross state lines, merit hard time in a federal penitentiary. You and all your partners are married, aren’t you?” Rebecca had done her homework. “When I get done with you, you’ll be penniless. You’ll be turning tricks in jail, for cigarette money. My advice to you is to make a deal.”
Tony refused to acknowledge Rebecca. Sarah moved forward to give him another jolt.
But Debbie waved her off. Instead, Debbie left my side to walk around, to Tony’s front. Using a dance-step from one of our jazzercise routines, she kicked him squarely in the balls.
“That’s from ‘Tie’ number fourteen, you scum ball,” Debbie said. “Anne’s our friend. You’re lucky she went to the Woman’s Resources Closet the night you raped her. Jackie was on duty and got us all together, to help. Anne thought briefly about suicide. When I think about what you did, I want to break your face.”
“Again, we’ve used reasonable force to protect our safety,” Rebecca said as she gently moved Debbie away from Tony. “Easy Debbie - let me handle him. Tony, I know your partners and you will do anything to avoid prison and divorce settlements that will financially wipe you out. I’m sure everyone’s wives will also see the wisdom of a deal. Your actions were egregious, and they merit swift and true punishment. We’re willing to work with the court, to see that everyone involved comes out of this -- as legally whole as possible. These are our non-negotiable terms:
A. You and your partners will sell the National Corporation for fair market value, to an Employee Stock Ownership Plan.
B. You and your partners will immediately apologize to every Tie, including Debbie, Anne, Sarah, Jill, and Jackie.
C. You and your partners will make reparation to every Tie, including Debbie, Anne, Sarah, Jill, and Jackie. Each of you will pay an amount equal to one-half percent of the total value of the corporation. . .to each of your individual Ties. I personally will take a statement from every impacted National Corporation employee, to make sure you don’t miss anyone.
D. Each of you will give your wives what is left from your proceeds of the company and will grant each of them uncontested divorces allowing them everything you own other than an amount of $500,000. I estimate that’s about one percent of your current net worth.
E. Each of you will undergo at least six months of therapy in a full-time facility for sex offenders and will voluntarily register, on a national list of sex offenders.
F. Each of you will agree that you will take gainful employment at an annual salary of less than $25,000 and will remain so employed until you retire at age seventy.
G. You and your partners will hold one last board meeting, and name Jill the new CEO of National Corporation. Debbie will be the CFO, Anne the Secretary, Jackie the Treasurer, and Sarah the COO. Each will be given an annual salary commensurate with their title and will start working, almost immediately, at whichever office they choose. You and your partners will then resign from the board.
H. You will stipulate, in writing, that the charges made to the corporate credit cards by Anne, Sarah, and Debbie were approved as “fronted” by the corporation -- as short-term loans, to be fully reimbursed by Jill, within thirty days.
I. You and your partners will be charged with a raft of criminal offenses, to which you will all plead guilty. You will receive probation that is contingent upon you meeting every provision, in this agreement, to the fullest.
Ra - ah Becca - my good friend - is one of those people that can’t count and talk at the same time. She had to use letters. Obviously, she can think on her feet. Her plan exhibits pure genius.
Tony glanced at Sarah before he spoke. “Rebecca, it’s your camera and recording equipment. It’s your work-product. How about if I give you fifteen million dollars for everything?”
Rebecca snorted. “How about I let Sarah have you by herself for a few hours? You have fifteen seconds, to take the deal.”
The master negotiator looked up at Rebecca. He frowned deeply and then whispered, “I agree.”
“Good,” Rebecca said. “I’m going into the judge’s chambers tomorrow to get a consent decree. Given the circumstances of this case -- I know who the judge will be. I can safely say that she will find our terms most acceptable. Should any of the current National Corporation owners fail to perform under this agreement, a federal marshal will track them down. They’ll spend the rest of their lives in prison.”
I’m soooo happy to be on Rebecca’s team.
Debbie was back to hugging and nuzzling me.
Some of my feelings of intense shame are fading. Perhaps what had happened physically between Tony and me is of no real importance to anyone. It was part of what created the outcome we all needed. If I can find my way through a complicated maze, maybe I can live with myself. Maybe this all is a part of the process.
I looked at Debbie and Sarah and saw love in their eyes.
We are friends.
“I want to go home, Debbie,” I said. “I want to go home, to my own house, to Jackie.”
She squeezed me tightly. “You will be going home tonight. There are just a few more things that have to be done. We have to have an officer of the court take a sperm sample from your body, for DNA evidence against Tony. You need to have a physical examination. It’ll take about an hour, at the hospital.”
Rebecca took a tampon and maxi-pad from her purse. “Jill, please use these to make sure everything stays in place during your ride, over to the hospital.”
Women are always loaning those things to each other. I took what she had offered without comment and accepted what had to be done.
Sarah gave Rebecca the stun gun and then went back, into the room, with the cameras. She returned with a bag that contained a change of clothes for me. “Anne told us that Tony’s tough on clothes. We brought these, in case you needed them.”
The bag contained the pink jogging suit that Anne had let me use, for our very first shopping trip. Anne kept forgetting to take her things home with her when she visited me. I stared at the suit.
Sarah read my mind. “She’s okay. She’s over at your house with Jackie -- waiting for our call. I’ll place it before we leave for the hospital. Tony, you’re going to spend the night in jail.”
With some difficulty, I got up from the couch and then found my way to the bathroom. As I walked, I could feel where Tony’s cock had been. It was an irritating reminder of what I had done.
I avoided looking in the mirror above the sink. Left alone, for just a moment, I spent some time figuring out how to insert the tampon and fasten the maxi-pad. The tampon pressed against tissue that was tender from Tony’s penetration. I wonder if there’s been any bleeding.
I thought of the “on the rag” remark I had tossed at Judy, before we went to Perkins. Things had a way of coming full circle. It was my bad karma, again.
Rebecca used her phone, to call a friend, on the police force. After a few minutes, two officers were reading Tony his rights. Acting on Rebecca’s advice, they had collected two garbage bags filled with physical evidence, should there ever be a need: my shredded clothes, the ties, and other things.
“Hey, Tony,” I quietly called to him, on his way out the door, “Those cuffs look good on you. I hope your cellmate is hung like a horse.”
With all his problems, he had forgotten all about me.
I was disappointed when he didn’t respond. But it was a relief not to have his undivided attention.
Debbie came into the bathroom, to help me get myself together.
My make-up was a disaster. I used a cold washcloth to clean off the errant mascara and other smears. All I had energy for was a dab of face powder and a touch of lipstick. Sarah’s bag also contained tennis shoes, socks, cotton panties, and a bra.
Debbie found my breastsforms and had put them in my bra -- before I slipped it on.
I ran a brush through my hair and took one last glance in the mirror. I saw a woman getting ready to go home to the person she loved. She looked tired and somewhat confused – but happy.
Sarah called Anne while we were in the bathroom. She told her everything had worked perfectly. She briefly recapped the deal that had been struck with Tony. Sarah was circumspect in her description of the evening. She told Anne to let Jackie know that we would be with them, in a few hours.
Rebecca went back to her office to prepare documents, for Tony’s signature. She would meet with Tony within the hour. In the morning, she would fly to Boston, with three sets of similar documents. She wouldn’t sleep until she had all four partners’ signatures, on agreements.
Sarah and Debbie kept me quiet, on the ride, to the hospital.
Every time I tried to say something, I was shushed.
Debbie was in physical contact with me, at all times. She seemed agitated.
Sarah would not look me in the eye.
I assume she’s decided I enjoyed my time with Tony a little too much. After all our discussions to the contrary, it’s still possible that she’s homophobic.
Will Jackie react the same way? I asked myself. Is there any way I can be part of a normal family, after what I did?
The attending physician and his staff were professional. No mention was made of the mismatch between my biological sex and my attire. Their demeanor was sympathetic, as they carefully scrubbed me with antiseptic solution after a thorough examination.
I’m wearing a new scent -- “eau de hospital.”
Sarah and Debbie both tried hard to field the questions the hospital staff needed answered, shielding me from further mortification.
I was comfortable with them taking charge. They had been dominant in our recent relationship and I saw no need for a drastic change.
After an uncomfortable examination, during which they took gallons of my blood, we finally drove to my home. Debbie and I sat in the rear seat of Sarah’s spacious SUV. Debbie held me tightly -- as if I would break if I tried to sit by myself.
Maybe I would.
When we pulled into the driveway, I wanted to run to our door. But I also wanted to stay in the car. I was afraid to face Jackie and the consequences of my shameless actions. My fear was as bad as the first time I revealed Jill to her years ago, in that peach-colored nightie.
I took strength from her second letter and the notes she had sent. As I made my way up the walk, I noted the house was fully lit, in what I hoped was a sign of welcoming.
The front door swung open. I was in Jackie’s arms, and everything was as it should be.
We hung on to each other for several minutes, in a tearful embrace.
I had tried to imagine what our reunion would be like many times, in my motel room. My mind’s eye had included her careful inspection of the new me. There was none of that. It was just us being one.
After a few minutes, Anne joined us in a group hug that soon included Debbie and Sarah.
I looked to Anne, to beg her forgiveness.
She smothered my apology. “It wasn’t your fault, Jill,” Anne said. “You weren’t responsible for that animal.”
Someday, I might allow myself to believe her.
We made our way to the library. The boys were at Jackie’s mother’s house, for the night. It was 5:00 in the morning.
Debbie asked Jackie and Anne to step out of the room for a minute.
I bit my lip. I really don’t want to be separated from Jackie again, for the rest of my life.
Once Jackie and Anne left, Debbie pulled me to our couch, where I was flanked by Sarah and her. Despite my efforts to be stoic, I moaned as my tender bottom landed on the sofa.
“Oh, Jill,” Debbie said. “We didn’t want it to go that far. Sarah and I wanted to bust in when it looked like our original plan had gone bad. But, Rebecca said, ‘No.’ She convinced us that you would somehow let us know the minute you wanted our help.”
Sarah jumped in, as Debbie appeared too choked up to continue, “Rebecca told us we had to let things play out. She said that we really had nothing. We didn’t -- up until that prick admitted his sex ring existed. What a fool! Rebecca had checked the room just prior to your arrival. She found the chloroform. It was just where Anne said it would be. After that a-hole bastard drugged you, Rebecca said we should wait to see what he had to say. We were going crazy when he started admitting things -- things far beyond our foulest anticipation.”
“Twice, I tried to come in, to put a stop to what was happening,” Debbie said, between sobs. “I would’ve ruined everything. Rebecca was working on her legal theory and restraining both of us, at the same time. She can be pretty tough. We’re so sorry, Jill.” Her fingers lightly traced the marks on my wrist where I had been lashed, to the bed.
“I wanted to warn you about the possibilities of Tony forcing you to do things and using chloroform,” Sarah said. “We didn’t know if what he did with Anne was a one-time thing, or not. We didn’t want to scare you any more than what you were. I’m so sorry we got you into this. We should have found another way.”
I had heard enough. “You guys quit it. After what Tony did to Anne, something had to be done. I was the one to do it. I’ll be okay. He’s stopped. Rebecca was right, to let the evening run its course.”
Sarah was crying more than either Debbie or me.
I’ve never seen her so considerate or emotional.
Her tears were contagious.
The three of us were up and hugging again when Jackie and Anne brought in tea.
Jackie had thoughtfully provided a large box of tissues, which were being used by the handfuls.
I had gravitated toward my chair, a large La-Z-Boy recliner. I had spent thousands of hours, in that chair watching sports. I sat down, but immediately jumped out of it exclaiming, “It’s so big.” I feel tiny in it.
Jackie sat in my chair and then pulled me onto her lap. “It’s perfect for the two of us,” she said, snuggling me.
Debbie pushed a footstool across the room and sat -- with her hand on my knee.
Both Anne and Sarah elected to sit on the floor - - close enough to be able to touch us.
I nestled into Jackie. Those long days, without physical contact, were a fading memory.
“Rebecca will keep all the copies of the tapes,” Debbie whispered. “She needs to have them, for evidence, in case there ever has to be a trial.”
“Forgive me if I’m being selfish,” Jackie said. “But I don’t want to know what happened in that room. Whatever you had to do -- you did. I’m very proud of you.”
It seems best for her not to know.
It was time for a complete explanation, of the past several weeks.
“Jill, you’ve become a very lovely person,” Debbie said. “We aren’t at all surprised. We had seen glimpses of your true self, over the years.”
“After Jackie told us of your cross-dressing we all wanted to help you,” Anne said. “At first, we thought we needed to find a way, to help you quit.”
“I offered to give you shock therapy,” Sarah said, with a malicious grin.
A giggle from the others indicated that she wasn’t telling the truth.
“After we studied everything we could about cross-dressing, you were given the psychological tests we mentioned, in our letter to you,” Debbie said. “Our plan was along the lines of the teachings of Carl Jung. It was a three-step plan. First, your Ego needed to consciously decide that its identity had to include your true Self. Second, your false gender had to go away. Lastly, a new persona had to be established actualizing your true Self.”
I was having trouble following what Debbie had said. It was obvious she was parroting a professional source.
Anne took a stab at helping her. “This is how the doctors explained it to us. When you were very young, you first realized your Self was not matched to your biological sex. You attempted to hide from your Self by attempting to be the masculine person everyone expected you to be. At the same time, you wanted love, love that would validate your whole Self -- all of you. You allowed your true Self to be seen when you were quite young, by wearing your sister’s clothes. You were told in many ways by society that cross-dressing was unacceptable. Society drove your true Self deep inside of you -- by making you aware of taboos.”
“You became obsessed with cross-dressing at an early age,” Jackie said. “You needed to heal the split between your true self and what the psychiatrists call your ‘societal image.’ You had developed the masculine personality that was necessary for you to have a functioning life. But you were constantly torn between what others thought you should be and who you really are.”
“As you told me,” Sarah said. “At some time around puberty -- we assume -- the fear of the consequences of being caught cross-dressing caused you to become sexually aroused, while you were in contact with women’s clothing. You masturbated, which was the natural thing to do. Once you had experienced that sexual relief, you confused the need to wear women’s clothing for your Self-actualization with the need for sexual satisfaction.”
Jackie pulled me even closer to her.
We were discussing my masturbation and she was holding on, accepting that part of me that had caused me so much shame.
I listened intently - - understanding some things about myself for the first time in my life. I also closely watched all four of them to gauge the level of their conviction, in what they were saying, especially Jackie.
“Because you were a good Catholic boy,” Anne said, “you had tremendous guilt. You were angry and frustrated because you didn’t understand. How could’ve you known about your true Self? Your innermost thoughts were something you considered sinful. Books, movies, magazines, and television all confirmed your worst fears. According to their message, men who wear dresses are perverted creeps. Society has labeled cross-dressers as sexual deviants, to be ridiculed. We’re wrongly taught that transvestites are unlovable creatures, so disgusting they don’t deserve common decency.”
She went on after she had paused to consider her words. “We checked your computer’s history, at work. You had been surfing suicide sites.”
I stared at the floor in disgrace. Suicide was something I had thought of many times in my life. The grandfather clock tolled six, as we took time to consider the implications of what Anne had just said. Jackie’s Escape eau de parfum filled my mind. I had missed it.
Debbie pushed on. “We were worried about you. Suicides are common amongst cross-dressers. We’ve had you under twenty-four-hour supervision, for the past four months. The cameras in your motel room were meant to prevent you from doing something awful. Someone was always posted outside your motel watching you, on their laptop. From a month prior to the meeting we had with you, at my house, you were never out of our sight. We really were upset by your darned insistence that we wear those French costumes. But not enough to put you through humiliation. You had just provided us with a convenient excuse, to help you.”
I nodded slowly. “I’ll never be able to repay you for everything you guys have done.”
“We’ll think of something.” Sarah grinned.
“You’re what Native Americans call ‘two-souled.’” Jackie said, “When you and I have some time, we’re going to check into your past lives. You were in such despair. It was obvious you couldn’t conceive of a way to live with yourself. The plan for your process was drafted with the help of several psychologists. You have such a type-A personality. In your battle against yourself, you had reached the conclusion there was nothing you could do. The burden of inaction, not making any attempt to correct your gender error, was becoming more than what you could stand.”
Sarah took my hands in hers. “After our initial research, it was never our plan to ‘cure’ your cross-dressing. The first thing we needed to do was break the link in your mind between women’s clothing and. . ..” She dropped my left hand and pumped her right hand in a jerking-off motion -- that made me blush.
“We had to help you think of your clothes differently,” Sarah continued. “As a true woman, you’re very modest. We used that modesty to prevent you from masturbating when aroused by cross-dressing. You had been conditioned to have a sexual response to clothes. Just like Pavlov’s dog was conditioned to respond to a bell. Once the link between clothing and sexual gratification was broken, the clothes became part of what was needed to actualize your true Self. By taking away any need you had, to hold on to your false gender, we created a situation where you could let the masculinity society had imposed upon you to fade away. We wanted you to realize the simple explanation for your desire to be a woman. Quite simply, you’re a woman.”
I was beginning to see how and why their plan had worked. It was terribly simple. All I ever had to do was comprehend that a change to womanhood was a reasonable goal for me. I could rise to that challenge, as I had all the other challenges I had set for myself. I had been placing false obstacles, in my path toward achieving happiness. I was too busy whining to myself about why it couldn’t possibly happen, to simply go out and do it.
I felt like Dorothy. I had possessed the Ruby Slippers all the while I had been running around doing scary things -- trying to get home. All I ever had to do was click them together three times. It’s so easy when you know what to do.
There’s no place like home.
We must have awakened Champ. He trotted into the room and looked us over. Much to my surprise, he ran to me and started humping my leg.
“Welcome to the club,” Jackie said. Our laughter cleared some of the seriousness from the room.
“We never would have forced you to do anything,” Debbie said. “The lawsuit was a ruse. Rebecca’s a good friend of yours. She likes your nicknames for her. She thinks they make her sound tough. For years, Becky has been part of a transgender team that is associated with the university. She’s been doing pro bono work, helping people change their legal gender status. When her name came up in our research, we knew she would be a great ally. We had psychologists and psychiatrists involved every step of the way. The psychiatrists observed you twenty-four-hours a day when you were in the motel. You’ve been a case study that was paid for, by a very large grant. We reported everything you said to them. We had to tell them everything you did when you were outside of your motel.”
“I woondeeered about some of the questions Sarah asked me,” I said.
We all laughed.
“I was the only one with enough guts to ask you some of those things.” Sarah said, “We were told what to say and do -- most of the time. They made me be the fricking meanie.”
“Typecasting,” Anne said, giggling.
Debbie’s eyes had finally dried. “The psychiatrists helped us modify our plan as changes were needed. It actually was much simpler than it sounds. You did all the real work. Once you took the initial steps, you started to develop beyond the artificial limits that had been placed on you, by society. You really caught on to the advantages of being a woman. You’ve become a much more sociable person. When you balked at getting your ears pierced, it was a big step backward.”
“That’s why I was so upset,” Anne explained. “I didn’t want to see you revert to your old problems. I’m sorry I was so mean.”
“You couldn’t be mean, if you wanted to be,” I said and patted Anne’s hand.
“The date with John was meant to be a baptism of fire,” Debbie said. “The psychiatrist correctly predicted that it would help you understand your true Self.”
“Your cross-dressing episodes, for the past few decades, were only temporary fixes,” Jackie said. She was gently rubbing my shoulder, soothing me. “You paid a horrible price each time you had a fix.”
“Your cross-dressing soothed the symptoms of your inner conflict, but did nothing to solve the underlying problem,” Anne added. “There’s a strong political movement to curb the violence against transgendered people. It goes on despite Trump’s trans-bashing. Studies indicate hate is one of the primary factors behind much of the school bloodshed and bullying. Many people want transgendered people given the same social status as homosexuals. With more public understanding, widespread societal acceptance is possible. Twenty years ago, homophobia was mainstream. We’re slowly becoming a more enlightened society.”
“I remember telling you that the worst thing that could happen to me would be if you decided to have a sex change,” Jackie said. “I now realize I fell in love with your true Self. I admire the way you try to share housework and child-rearing with me. I’ve been frustrated by the limits placed on us, by our culture. Whatever you need to do to match your Self with your Ego is okay with me. I know it’s the best for everyone involved, including our boys. Although I’ll readily admit, it was wonderful to hear you have no interest in a sex reassignment surgery. I’ve read in the reports of your progress, and have seen with my own eyes, how your most positive qualities are being amplified. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life -- with you.”
Is there any wonder why I love her?
Epilogue
It has been almost eighteen months since that night, in the hotel.
So much has happened that brought us to our second wedding day. So much has changed.
Jackie and I talk through everything. We’re still each other’s best friend and lover.
For all our talking, we have never really discussed that night I spent with Tony, and probably never will.
Debbie and Sarah have been totally discreet.
Rebecca went to Boston the morning after my night with Tony. After showing the partners an Omaha police mug shot of Tony and listing the pending charges, she had their full attention. She showed them an unedited tape of my ordeal with Tony, including full audio. She refused to turn it off -- until the point when Debbie, Sarah, and she came into Tony’s room.
The partners called legal representation.
Rebecca played the complete tape five times for the lawyers, as they tried desperately to save their clients.
Acting on the advice of counsel, the partners grabbed the deal she offered, to them.
The contracts were signed and later filed with the federal court in Omaha.
Rebecca also had all the partners waive extradition to Nebraska should it ever become necessary, due to non-compliance. All four former partners were divorced, within a year. All have menial jobs, pulling down a workingman’s wage.
Jackie and I made restitution to National Corporation for money improperly charged to corporate credit cards. We had spent nearly $100,000. Much of it was eventually reimbursed to us by the foundation grant.
The first apologies we received from Tony and his partners were terse and sprinkled with legalese. Later, as the four went through twelve-step programs as sex offenders, we all received very sincere requests for forgiveness.
Anne and Sarah didn’t have to leave Omaha. They have been able to handle their corporate duties from there.
Jackie, Debbie, and I took over the Boston office. As it turned out, Jackie was eager to move away from, at least, part of her family. She had long thought they were restricting her personal growth by demanding that she fill the stereotypical roles of housewife and mother.
There was plenty of equity, in the company, to complete a leveraged buyout, by the ESOP. Two months ago, we took National Corporation public. The stock opened at fifteen and ended the first week at thirty-two. It stabilized with a market capitalization of $192,000,000.
We had successfully changed the culture of the company. What had been a company that used and abused its employees, had become a company that enriched its employees’ lives. As such, it became much more profitable.
Many of the current four thousand employees are quite wealthy. Especially well off are those unfortunate few that owned a ST tie or scarf.
In retrospect, Tony and his pals were very fortunate none of the “Ties” had committed suicide. The prosecutor never would have approved Rebecca’s plan -- had a death been involved.
The day of the initial public offering, the five of us got together, to celebrate with Dom Perignon.
Sarah uncorked the best line of the night. “Given this company’s history,” she said. “I hope no one thinks it’s a dot come.”
Anne made a full recovery from her night with Tony. She had been in therapy at the same time I was going through my process. She used the same psychiatric team.
It was hard for Anne. She had wanted to press charges against Tony immediately after being raped.
Rebecca talked her out of it, telling Anne that her style of clothing would be brought into question, in court. Rebecca said that it didn’t matter what Anne’s morals had been. Her wardrobe and beauty would allow Tony to say he had been enticed. Male dominant court systems still slant rape cases toward giving the man the benefit of the doubt. Helping me turned out to be a very positive activity for Anne. It gave her a greater good to accomplish.
She was married eight months ago to a man in the sports security business. She decided to quit the company and will raise a family in San Diego. With money from her stock, she bought a house on Coronado Island.
The blood the hospital took the night I was raped tested negative for HIV, herpes, and other STDs. The tests also showed traces of a drug Tony had put in my last drink.
The drug greatly enhanced my sexual desire and lowered my inhibitions.
I will always wonder if I would have sucked Tony’s penis, or if I would have been so sexually excited during the rape, had I not been drugged.
The blood tests also revealed that my body was producing estrogen at a high level. Simply by blocking a small portion of my testosterone production, I have been able to grow my own breasts. I’m a natural 36B. All of my male equipment is still fully functional.
My weight distribution has shifted. I’m even more pear-shaped than I was before. I no longer need the padded panties.
Unlike many other women, I love my body. Subsequent physicals have indicated a distinct drop in my once high blood pressure. I have had no colds or flu during the past eighteen months. I haven’t gained back any of the weight I lost while staying at the motel.
The plastic surgeon that did my nose job -- later had me in for a check-up. She suggested that I do a few things to “enhance my female presentation.”
“I can shave the bones behind your eyebrows and accent your cheekbones,” she said.
“Is that what you would recommend?” I asked.
“First, I would have to know if you’re happy with how you look now.”
“Jackie and I are both quite pleased with how I look,” I admitted.
“Personally, I think you’re pretty just the way you are. I hate it when my patients try to become perfect because I know my work will never please them.”
I have elected not to have more plastic surgery.
My wife and friends helped me bring my gender identity to a close approximation of my true Self. I’m happy and don’t want to make unnecessary changes. Society pushes us to want perfection. That’s the essence of the gender problem. Society wants us to be either a perfect man or a perfect woman. There’s nothing society recognizes in between.
I have gone through extensive counseling to complete the actualization process and to deal with the trauma inflicted on me by Tony. I have the occasional nightmare. I’ve realized that what occurred between him and me wasn’t my doing.
Most of the real work was done in Omaha, during those months in that motel.
The psychiatrists said my cross-dressing might have been partially an obsessive-compulsive behavior. They were intrigued by my mother’s mental health shortly before her death. She had exhibited several strong obsessive-compulsive behaviors. They suggested that I might consider ongoing counseling, to make sure I would be able to avoid a similar pattern.
It occurred to me the psychiatrists could be exhibiting an obsessive-compulsive behavior. I thanked them for their past help and ended their care.
During the weeks in the motel, I had thought about the possibility of never being a dad again and I was saddened by that prospect. Once I was back with my family, I made a list of those things that I did as a dad for the boys.
1.) Love their mother
2.) Nurture them
3.) Praise them daily whenever I honestly could
4.) Correct them, as needed
5.) Care about what they care about
6.) Spend lots of time with them
7.) Talk with them
8.) Monitor their education
9.) Filter TV, radio, books, and movies
10.) Screen their friends
11.) Know where they are
12.) Exhibit a proper sense of priorities
13.) Discipline prudently
14.) Be angry only when absolutely needed
15.) Radiate optimism as their role model
I couldn’t see any problem doing all of those as a woman. In fact, the role of a parent seems rather androgynous.
I have broken off with all my old chums in Omaha. I have very little in common with them. We have a wonderful new circle of friends in Boston and are constantly making more.
Shortly after moving to Boston, I spent three weeks at a “charm” school to help me eliminate the last vestiges of male habits and vocabulary.
Vestiges — hmmm – another “vest” word.
Women’s clothing is no longer the fetish it once was for me. It’s simply my clothes. I find them very sensual. But in a different way. I have broken the stimulus/response chain between clothing and masturbation. Sex with Jackie is more interactive and mutually satisfying.
My clothes are no longer an issue -- as no one makes them an issue. Society has such strange rules for us all. Why what you wear should be anything but a personal decision is beyond me.
My voice has adapted on its own, taking on a much softer quality. I have become a real chatterbox. I love small talk. Jackie and I babble at each other for hours, caressing one another with our voices.
I have had extensive electrolysis and no longer have a beard. I don’t have to worry about dulling the razor, for my face, when I shave my legs.
My friends successfully planted a rumor within the company. People believe I’m a natural-born woman who lived as a man, to defeat the corporate glass ceiling.
In the early part of the last century, my faux persona would have been known as a “passing woman.” Many women, who then worked for the railroad, passed as men, as the railroad would only hire men.
According to the rumor, Jackie and I are lesbian lovers who adopted three sons to maintain our cover.
Finding one’s Self is tremendously liberating. I’m no longer worn-out dealing with my internal conflicts. I have gotten much more energetic. The time I once spent cross-dressing is being directed toward purposeful things.
John called a few times. I finally agreed to have lunch with him during a business trip to Omaha. I told him the truth. My sexual orientation is definitely that of a heterosexual male. He finally crossed me off his list.
I appreciate the beauty of a good-looking woman. Due to the process of finding my Self, I also have a heightened appreciation for a handsome man. That is the end of my interest. I have been screwed and have sucked a cock. Any curiosity I had has been satiated. I have no desire to have sex with anyone but Jackie. Jackie and I have a great sex life. I would be a fool to ever want more.
That isn’t to say I don’t have fantasies about what it would have been like to actually become a sex toy. There have been times I have thought long and hard about it. I think about what sex would have been like with Tony, without the bondage. At other times, I fantasize about steamy, passionate nights with John.
But I know the infinite difference between fantasy and my true life.
John Lennon and Paul McCartney had it right. “All you need is love. Love is all you need. In the end, the love you get is equal to the love you make. Nothing you can do, but you can learn how to be you in time, it’s easy.”
Today, I got my wedding ring back. Jackie kept it until we could renew our vows as Jackie and Jill. This morning, I told her I want my name to be Gill and she agreed.
We were married at 10:00, in honor of the time Debbie, Sarah, and Anne normally would take me to lunch, during the process. It was a beautiful ceremony. Jackie and I walked down the aisle together. We both had bridesmaids. Jackie’s were Debbie and Sarah and mine were Anne and Bess.
Our investigation showed that every Tie had been blameless, in what they did. They all were victims like us. We uncovered no evidence of wrongdoing. Tony had embellished and outright lied about catching people doing things.
Bess is a lovely person who has found herself.
The seating was arranged with the family of the bride on the right -- and the family of the other bride, on the left. The church was packed with relatives, friends, and ex-Ties. Our sons served as ushers and ring bearers.
Jackie and I wore identical dresses created by her mother. We looked like we belonged on the top of a cake. She used yards and yards of white satin. The three of us spent many, many hours together planning the ceremony and the gowns.
I love the pace of female life. It’s a life that places importance, on details.
My Aunt Evelyn was against the wedding, from the start. She said it would give more people a chance to hurt me. Dad told her I was a big girl. He said I was old enough to choose my battles.
Then he said, “If your Uncle Kenny doesn’t like it, he can just pound salt up his ass.”
Uncle Kenny is my godfather. I let the comment pass. But was deeply wounded when he didn’t come to the ceremony.
Most of our relatives have accepted our marriage as a union of two people who are extremely happy and productive together. Most have accepted me, at least to a level where family events are uneventful. When comments are made that are negative, they’re terribly painful, but I can’t expect everyone to give me unqualified love.
My being a transgenderist will always be there, if someone wants to make it an issue. Unfortunately, Debbie’s husband is one of those, who can’t stand to be around me. So far it hasn’t altered how Debbie feels about me. . .or him.
Well-intentioned people have said, “This just isn’t you.” or, “You’re going through a phase.” or, “Don’t worry, this won’t last.” They aren’t being mean. I have come to realize that people are scared by change. They don’t want to be left with a new person. They worry about where they might stand, with that new person. They seem to think that if one person can change, others might too, and that makes them feel insecure.
Rebecca got permission from the court, to act as a justice of the peace. As such, she married us for the second time. When we were signing the marriage documents after the ceremony she whispered in my ear. “White, Gill? I was watching a video last night that suggests red would be much more appropriate, for your wedding gown.”
Rebecca can be a real bitch. I have learned a woman can say “bitch” with an entirely different meaning than when it’s said by a man.
Rebecca can also be very sweet. After the ceremony, she gave me a set of new official documents proclaiming my legal status as a woman. She had completed the legal gymnastics, to change all my identification to Jill. My status as a woman was affirmed all the way up to -- and including -- the Social Security Administration and the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles. It was her wedding gift to Jackie and me.
I will have to change the name on the documents to “Gill.” Changing a J to a G will be much easier than changing M to F had been.
Rebecca is now simply “Becky” to me -- and always will be.
When we moved to Boston, I started in the community as a woman and am accepted by almost everyone. Every so often I’m read -- when we’re out in public. I have received rude treatment from some shop clerks. It seems to happen at the oddest times and in the strangest places. Perhaps, I’m giving off male pheromones.
Our kids are really cool with the whole deal. Their attitude is, “Dad got sick and grew tits.”
I’m buoyed by the fact that no known child of a transgendered parent has ever shown signs of gender dysphoria.
I overheard a conversation our twelve-year-old had. “My dad had a sex change. He is now a woman.”
“Why?”
“He feels like a woman.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I feel okay.”
The eight-year-old has said. “Jill wants to be a woman. Jill wants a fresh start at life. She likes living as a woman. When I was six, I didn’t understand. As I’ve gotten older, I realized she must be happy as a woman. So, I get it.”
When asked, “Why does your daddy dress as a lady?” Our four-year-old answered, “It’s good for her.”
None of the boys has had an extensive conflict with their peer group. All have positive relations with me.
I have been so much happier without the guilt. Our home is a much nicer place.
I’m in the process of cashing in my stock options and winding down any involvement in National Corporation. We are a publicly held company, subject to intense scrutiny. I fear an expose in a magazine like Fortune. I don’t want to tempt fate.
Jackie wants to stay with the business. It suits her. She and I have created a wonderful relationship. We find the time to dance, talk, and live. Jackie told me she never thought she would be married to another woman, but now she can’t picture any other life. The process has freed her as well. She loves to pamper me. She has moved toward her true Self.
I no longer find work fulfilling or even interesting. I have started to write children’s books filled with bedtime stories. My characters are loving and caring. They cry tears of joy and friendship.
I’m going to try my hand at running a household. I have read every back issue of Martha Stewart’s Living. I have taken several food preparation and nutrition courses and will enroll in family studies when we get back from our honeymoon. I want to be Donna Reed, while Jackie wants to prowl the corporate boardroom.
I’m neither a Big Red football player nor a Big Red fan. Fran Lebowitz once said, “Being a woman is of special interest to aspiring transsexuals. To be a woman is simply a good excuse not to play football.”
I no longer spend my days trying to be a woman. I spend my days being me -- a woman.
I have come to realize that those who blindly condemn transgenderists as perverts are the same group who consider women second-class citizens.
They’re bigots.
At the current time, the gender bigots are in the slight majority. That doesn’t make them any righter than the majority of U.S. citizens who were racial bigots. Our society needs to evolve quickly to accept those who must live as what is incorrectly thought of as the other sex. The Tony Warrans of the world work hard to perpetuate the fear and hatred toward cross-dressers, so they can maintain their good ol’ boys club. There is no logical basis for transphobic behavior.
I have found ways to get involved with my club of sisters. I’m working with Jackie at a rape crisis center twice a week. It is much easier, as a woman, to be fruitful, in the important work that needs to be done.
It’s not all humanitarian work and no play, for Gill. Jackie and I have been on shopping trips to Paris and Rio. I love the shoes from Brazil -- but hate their sizes.
I’m a size thirty-nine in Brazil!
Jackie and I have made a list like the one John showed me, in the restaurant. It includes things we want to accomplish together. It will take us the rest of our lives.
A few days after the night at the hotel with Tony, I had my very last purge. I sent all my size 18, 38C, and 3X clothes to the Salvation Army, and threw out every drop of Heavenly. Also, into the dumpster went ninety percent of the cosmetics I had before my friends gave me a new life. Most of the colors looked hideous, on my skin.
I have often quoted Thoreau. “Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes.” I have learned that the wrong clothes were placed on me at an early age. Once I had accepted my Self, I consented to the wardrobe I was born to wear. I found the courage to be me by rejecting the enterprise of faking a male persona.
I have changed. I’m much less competitive, much more of a follower than a leader, and considerably more excitable. I have become more trusting, more secure, more willing to be supportive, content, relaxed, prone to mediate rather than confront, and much more straightforward and consistent.
The wind chime has remained true to its nature. Each note is pure and resonant.
My nails are dry. It’s time for me to get dressed and join Jackie, to leave on our honeymoon. We are taking a four-week cruise.
Debbie, Anne, and Sarah gave me a French-maid costume as a wedding present. They said that I had to take it along on our honeymoon and serve my bride properly.
I had planned my packing down to the last square inch. I now need to find room for that costume.
Clothes can be so much trouble!
The End
(This was the first TG story I wrote. I struggled with the validity of the graphic sex scenes. They’re entirely consistent with the story and Jim’s progress toward becoming Gill. The message contained in this story is one of love and hope. It is my wish that you will leave this story feeling much better about yourself and the people around you. — Jill (Angela Rasch)
Thank you to Gabi for helping me with this story.
If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.
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
Also, Erin has made several of my books available through Amazon. She retains one hundred percent of the income from these books to help with the maintenance of this site. Please check them out. If I were to read them, I would do so in this order:
The Handshake That Hides the Snake
Uncivil
Baseball Annie
Peaches
Sky
Shannon’s Course
Swifter, Higher, Stronger
Ma Cherie Amour
All Those Things You Always Pined For
Basketball Is Life
The following have been donated by me for Hatbox content:
The Ninth Fold
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Voices Carry over Water
To Alleviate Suffering
Residue