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TRUST ME! by Vickie Tern I. "Andrew dear, why didn't you ever get your ears pierced?" I looked up, astonished. My wife was perched comfortably in our big easy chair, her nest most evenings when she wasn't out selling a client some building, her legs curled up under her, reading one of her magazines, all as usual. She was gazing at me casually with a mixture of curiosity and mild concern, as if the question had just occurred to her, and the answer didn't much matter, but it might, and she figured she'd ask before returning to her story, or article, or whatever. "What?!" I asked. I couldn't believe it. She knew I'd wanted to, in fantasy, but she knew that for me fantasy and fact were separate, that I'd never have done it. And in fact she hated the pleasure I felt when decorating myself like a woman! She never allowed reference to it. She didn't want to know! My mind replayed what I'd just heard, and tried to re-hear it. 'Airs,' could that have been the word? 'Pursed?' No, nothing else made sense. But what I'd heard didn't make sense either! "Your ears," she said patiently. "Didn't you ever want to get them pierced?" "Well, yes," I replied. I wondered if I could tell her when that was. It was a few years ago, during those intoxicated, golden afternoons when I couldn't help indulging my love of dressing up, just before she came home early one afternoon to discover me dolled up curls to heels in women's clothes, coiffed and jeweled, strutting and posing in front of a mirror until I saw her in the same mirror, standing there watching me, shocked! At that time I was besotted by the fantasy that I could magically become a complete woman, and yet remain a man, no bodily alterations toward femininity being too extreme nor too permanent. Pierced ears were the least of the things I wanted but would never have except in my imagination. Above all, I gloried in imagining that my Monica was as delighted and entranced as I was when I was dressed to look like a woman, even turned on by it. Or at least mildly interested, and perhaps helpful. But when she actually saw me cross dressed, reality replaced fantasy. Long months of resentment and grief followed while our marriage foundered. She made impossible demands I was too honest to accept, that it was a filthy addiction like smoking I should give up cold turkey, or taper off gradually, that a shrink could cure me, that I should take up golf or tennis instead, that I should settle for flashy men's clothes whenever I felt the urge. She had cross dressing confused with infidelity, as if by dating my mirror image I was being intimate with another woman. I argued in turn that it was harmless, for me a source of great joy, nothing more. Finally she understood that it was a compulsion, delightful to me if perverse to her, but a deep-rooted, powerful compulsion nevertheless, dating maybe even from a prenatal time of life. It was how I was. Finally we agreed that I could keep doing it, since I'd keep doing it anyhow, but it should always be in ways and places where she'd never know or be reminded. Mostly I'd kept to that arrangement. It was tricky, but possible, and our happiness depended on it. We have a good marriage. We're a little unconventionally matched, maybe, but wonderfully compatible. I do most of my work at home, cost-estimating engineering projects, because home is where I can think more clearly than anywhere else, juggle all the variables in my head and watch them land right side up. Then I pipe in the results by fax or e-mail, and get other data back the same way. I don't much need to talk to anyone. I just do it, and do it better than anyone else. It's not something I especially enjoy, but there are compensations. I like the arrangement with my company because I'm a deep-dyed homebody. Always have been. The thinking is intricate and conceptual, and it's easy to get lost in your mind. But I love working out the problems while doing simple homey tasks in the real world, like making the beds or fluffing the couch pillows, or scrubbing the kitchen floor, or sewing on shirt buttons, or cooking up intricate dishes for my beloved wife. I know, this is all women's work, but it helps keeps me sane. Early in our marriage we agreed that I would look after our household routines, shopping and cooking and cleaning, and Monica would take charge of the exceptional elements of our marriage, like our social lives or vacations. This freed Monica for her work, which is selling real estate. She dearly loves it, and is a whiz at it. She's good with people -- she has the right combination of charm, persuasiveness, and persistence, and she does her homework too, her endless research on her clients and their needs and the properties she thinks right for them. She can be devious setting up intricate arrangements for a client to walk in, see advantages, and then think he's deciding for himself that this or that building and its financing are perfect for him. It's commonplace for Monica, about to close on an office building, to schedule the closing in another more expensive but more suitable building, lead the client in, and then let him discover that fact for himself. This especially amuses her boss, a smooth operator named Ben who has himself pulled off some very big deals in town. Sometimes he can't believe some scheme she's conceived will work, and they bet her commission on the outcome, double or nothing. He's right just often enough to want to keep betting and losing, and I've sometimes thought Monica schemes even that arrangement. Her job is demanding -- it gives her irregular hours additional to the regular work week she spends in her office. Sometimes she's out of the house all day and many evenings, and sometimes whole weekends. But she's hard-driving, and she enjoys it, and she enjoys the payoff. This was convenient. I was too frightened of discovery, too embarrassed by my own desire, to dress feminine anywhere but in my own home with the shades drawn. So I did the housework dressed suitably, in a house dress, and if there were no deadlines then I could lounge through the afternoons fixing my hair to look pretty, or even pretend I was out on the town wearing my one figure-clinging evening gown. After we arrived at our truce I couldn't keep the evidence entirely away from her. A few times panties or a bra unknown to her found their way from my separate laundry into her drawers, and then I'd find them on my bureau to be stowed in my own panty drawer, no comment ever made. It was embarrassing once when we had Ben over for dinner, and Ben commented that with all my domestic talents I'd make someone a fine wife some day. I flushed, maybe too quickly, but Monica leaped in to snap "No, he won't, he's already married to me," and that was that. Once or twice I'd forget myself, and ask her an idle question about women's styles, what do you call a high waistline, gathered under the breast and falling to a full skirt for example. She'd just bought such a dress. On such occasions she'd only reply sharply, "I told you, I'm not going to discuss such things with you. It would only encourage your sick habit." I didn't dare protest that my question was disinterested and innocent. I didn't dare say anything. It would only have seemed to her to be a deliberate extending of discussion of a forbidden topic, a flouting of our agreement. Where my transvestism was even distantly implied, she was not interested. Period. Until now. "Then why didn't you get them pierced? Every girl does. Didn't you want to be a girl?" Why didn't I do the nearly unthinkable, get my ears pierced and become one of the odd men who shared decorated ear lobes with most of the women on the planet? The ten thousand reasons why not flooded at me -- shame, fear of exposure, of jeopardizing my manhood, of gibes from my associates, of offending and appalling my wife when she saw the holes. Even fear of my own desires. It seemed dangerous for me to alter my body to match my fantasy desires, even in trivial ways -- who knew where that might end? "Oh, I don't know," I replied evasively. That was too evasive, obviously, so I added, "I didn't want to offend you, I suppose, in part." Then I risked her wrath by asking her an obvious question, and thereby actually extending the discussion, our first since those hideous months before we'd agreed never ever to mention anything about it again. "Why do you ask?" I asked, delicately. She scarcely noticed. Her turn to be evasive. "Different reasons," she said with a dismissive shrug. Then she realized that sounded too unforthcoming, too secretive, so she volunteered, "I found one of your clip earrings on the kitchen counter a few days ago, so I just wondered. It must have fallen off when you were fixing dinner, and you never noticed. It told me you're still dressing up day times. Though I didn't need to be reminded of that, of course." I took another chance. "No?" I asked. Then waited for the storm. None came. "Of course not. You're always leaving lipsticked kleenex in the bathroom. And often I can smell your perfume when we're in bed, when you don't shower first. Always the same perfume, *Enjoli,* which is fortunate for you, or I'd suspect you'd been with some other woman. But I found the bottle once, hidden in your toilet kit on the closet shelf, when you left it a little bit open and the smell had spread all over our bedroom. You're lucky I like the scent -- I even borrow a dab now and then. Then there are other things too, of course, like when you're careless about keeping our bras and slips separate, or when you kick off your heels under the bed and then forget they're there. Anyhow, when I found the earring I began wondering what kind of a woman you would make. Still strange looking, I suppose, because you don't shave your legs, or fix your eyebrows, and any girl needs to attend to things like that if she means to look pretty. Or even presentable." "Yes," I said, still too afraid to say anything else. Despite my bewilderment, I was in heaven! '*Our* bras and slips' she'd said, talking about them as if we were equally feminine! *Any* girl, as if I was one of them. And she'd borrowed my perfume! She seemed untroubled to be talking about it. Perfectly easy in fact. And she even seemed to be implying that I should try harder to look pretty. If only I dared! But there was more. "When I found your earring, dear -- those faux seed pearls set in silver? -- it's really lovely -- you do have good taste, I've got to grant that -- I realized it would go perfectly with my gray suit, the one with the cinched-in waist and flared peplum and short, straight skirt, you know it? You couldn't wear that suit now, but it would be quite becoming on you if you'd lose ten or fifteen pounds, I should think. Anyhow, I can't borrow your clip earrings, because my lobes are much too small for clip-ons. I'd only lose them. So I wondered why you don't have pierced ears, is all. Most women do. Then we could at least borrow each others' jewelry. We'd be like sisters." My heart swelled to bursting! This conversation was my fondest dream! "Oh, Monica," I began ecstatically.... Then I interrupted myself, and came fully alert. I sat up, and looked at her. Why, after years of detesting my habit, or ignoring it and hoping it would go away, why was it she was now chatting with me like a girlfriend, or -- what was it she'd just said? -- like another woman, like a sister. There was something wrong here. This was my dearest fantasy come to life. I was overjoyed, and my suspicions wanted to dissolve into tears of joy. But there was still something wrong. "Why do you ask, Monica?" I asked her again. "I mean, why now?" My voice rose into falsetto, then cracked on the word "now" despite myself. I tried to swallow, and couldn't. I saw she was looking at me intently and that she had seen and heard my excitement, and I saw the slightest of smiles play across the corners of her mouth before she stretched her arms out and yawned, then began to settle her eyes back onto the magazine in her lap. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "But I think I should help you with things like that. You have so much to learn." And she settled back into her reading as if fascinated by whatever had just caught her eye there, closed off to further discussion. A revolution had just occurred, and she seemed no more concerned than if she had asked me why I had tossed parmesan into tonight's salad. She had given me the most glorious gift! Not only had she calmly accepted my dressing up, and chatted about it, she'd offered to participate! No, she'd said she felt she should participate. My throat was still choked, and I tried to wipe away the tears in my eyes without being too obvious about it. Maybe it was just that love had finally brought her to acceptance of me as I am? All of me? She knew I was a loving and caring husband, and apart from my transvestism we were well matched. Maybe it was mean and ungenerous for me to question her further. That night we made tender, passionate love more devotedly than since the early days of our marriage, and she seemed serenely pleased as I held and caressed her, and hugged her close to me, and stroked my penis in and out of her pussy until her arms tightened on my neck and I knew she'd come. Then when we were done, and I was kissing her face gently over and over in sheer gratitude, she whispered "Yes, dear, I know how you feel." She kissed me once in return, then rolled over and instantly fell asleep. II. The next day she quit work early When I returned from an errand in the early afternoon I saw Monica's car in the driveway, heard noises upstairs, and went to investigate. There she was, just completing a fast shuffle through the guest-room closet where I kept my skirts, blouses, and dresses. I looked questioningly at her, but she merely looked up, appraised me at once in a single glance, and said, "No, you're no way ready. You have some nice things, dear. I'll bet I could wear some of your smaller dresses right now, and you can certainly borrow some of my loose-cut blouses and jumpers. But you do need to diet. And anyhow you can't quite pass safely yet. We'll have to do it in stages." "What?" I asked her, again nearly incoherent. Her talk about sharing clothes, again like girlfriends or sisters, filled my heart with joy. But her reference to passing frightened me. Did she mean for me to go out on the street? To be seen? "Darling, to do womanly things one should feel womanly, and move with a woman's self-assurance. So right now just put on a bra and panties and a short slip, and these slacks -- no one will notice there's no fly, and this over-shirt -- it's loose enough to hide your breast forms, I think. Are those sneakers unisex? Close enough for now. But no socks -- peds if you have any. Then let's go!" "Monica, go where?" Again my voice rose with a rising hysteria, this time sounding almost flute-like. "Why, to get your ears pierced, love. So we can share our jewelry and things. You'll love wearing some of my bangles and dangles. And you don't need to worry at all about offending me, not any more. I'm loving the idea already." She went back to our bedroom, and I began to undress, in order to re-dress myself entirely in women's clothes, as Monica had ordered, though the outer garments were indistinguishable from men's. Nearly. In order to go out. Out into a world of men and women. In order to get my ears pierced. I felt excited and terribly apprehensive, both at the same time. Almost at once she returned. Or so it seemed. She had changed from her businesswoman's tailored suit to a tight sweater and a mini skirt, for Monica rather sexy apparel. I could see her breasts push out and sag into the sweater's support in the most seductive curves -- could it be she wasn't wearing a brassiere? Then her nipples showed in profile, and I knew she wasn't. "Are you going out like that, Monica?" I tried to ask casually. But she knew what I meant. She shook her shoulders at me and her breasts bobbed up and down deliciously. "Just want you to be reminded that it takes more than a bra to make a woman, Andy love. Though that is a very pretty bra indeed, I must say. A lovely place to keep breasts when you've got 'em." I blushed, embarrassed. "Just remember, it's what's inside that counts the most, pet. For now, just put in your breast forms and hurry. Have you been admiring yourself in the mirror again? What's keeping you? I've changed completely and you're still only halfway there." I hurried into my slacks, sockless shoes, and oversized T-shirt, and as she predicted, looked merely unisex. I felt a little uneasy about the pants, which were form fit along my calf and snug on my ankles, and made a tight V at my crotch, neatly dividing my balls as if they were labia. But the T-Shirt covered the crotch, with its smooth frontage, so I slipped into my sneakers and declared, "Ready." "Well, not quite," said Monica. She hauled out a lipstick and began dabbing at my mouth. I could feel a waxy substance slipping onto my lips and coating them, and was shocked. "Monica!" I cried aghast. "What are you doing?" "Oh, stop worrying, baby," she said, "You know perfectly well what I'm doing. It's pale pink, nearly invisible. Did you think I want to appear in public with a man who wears lipstick? You know better than that! No, you won't get to wear proper lipstick until it becomes you as a woman. Sooner than you might think. But with this, you can feel you're wearing lipstick, and get used to how it feels. Never leave the house without it. I'm sure you already feel much more womanly because of it, don't you?" I did. "All right, we're going to be out for some time. Visit the bathroom, would you honey? And sit down when you do it, just for practice -- you'll need to pull down those pants and your panties anyhow. Then let's go! I'll wait for you in the kitchen." In the kitchen she handed me a small whisky on rocks. She was just finishing hers. "Here, dear. You seem nervous -- this'll calm you down." She went away while I sipped and swallowed. The whisky tasted like cheap stuff, but she'd put away the bottle so I couldn't see the brand. I prefer vodka. She returned. "Ready?" And she swept us both out the door and into her car. "Just sit there, now, dear. I'll drive." She did, to a rather nondescript part of town where she parked in front of a beauty parlor. "I'm not going in there," I said, now genuinely frightened. It was one thing to be an imitation woman in privacy, and enjoy the illusion. But this was authentic woman territory, and I was not one of them. To go in there, I thought superstitiously, might make me more of one of them than I wanted. It seemed terribly risky. "Oh, Andrew, don't be silly. Do you want your ears pierced by some teenager at the earring bazaar in the middle of the mall, in full view of everyone passing by? Or here, privately, by a professional?" "You're right," I replied morosely. "But Monica, I haven't yet worked out how I'm going to explain pierced ears to clients and people like that. Shouldn't we think these things through a little more?" "Andrea," she replied. "That's what I'll call you from now on, because that's who you enjoy being, and have always enjoyed being. I suppose ever since you were a little girl raised up to be a boy. Isn't that so? You told me all about that a few years ago, and I've read a lot about it since. Now Andrea, stop being nervous. You've thought about this all your life, haven't you? Now it's time to live your fantasy, and become the woman of your dreams." "Monica," I replied. "I never said I thought I was a little girl. I said I was a little boy who liked to imagine he was a little girl, and sneaked his mothers' panties now and then to help with the imagining. That's all. There's a difference." "Andrea, please, let's not quibble. I saw you dressed up to look like a woman, and I've been through your wardrobe. You love being Andrea. Your need to be Andrea almost cost us our marriage a while ago. All I'm saying is, you should be the best Andrea you can be. The prettiest. That's what we're here for." "What is it we're here for?" I asked, now genuinely apprehensive. To play by myself was one thing, and to play with my wife in the privacy of our own home was so much more. But Monica sounded serious. And this salon was serious woman space, not a mirror in my bedroom. "Oh, pooh! Look here. If you want to be Andrew now and then, you can always brush your hair longer to cover your ears, or wear just one earring the way most men do, or if you must, remove them both temporarily. But if you want to be sincere, truly yourself, wear whatever earrings you enjoy and show them to the world. I've got some wonderful chandeliers and cascades you'll love, for going out formal. Now, we're going in!" A large, somewhat well-curved woman walked smiling toward us past three or four chairs, each with neatly arranged rollers, curlers, and hair driers in little pastel plastic bins. The walls were lined with mirrors. There were plastic bottles and sprayers everywhere, marked with elaborate French names in impossible scripts. "Monica!" the woman said. "How lovely to see you again. And you must be Andrea! I'm Joellen! Yes, Monica is right, you have wonderful possibilities. Just sit right here. You can see, Monica, I've cleared my appointments until closing time just as you asked." I was relieved, a bit. The place looked empty. As I sat down where she indicated, she and Monica went over to a table with different boxes and bottles on it. Joellen showed her some, and they began looking through some picture books, talking animatedly in low voices, nodding frequently. After a moment they stopped, and both of them looked at me and smiled. "Look here," I said, "I'm here to get my ears pierced, because that's what I once thought I wanted, and because Monica sees advantages, and I can't deny there are some advantages." I didn't want to confess to a stranger that the thought of wearing Monica's earrings really turned me on, and had carried me here despite my apprehension. "But what do you mean, I have 'possibilities'? Just the ears are daring enough for me right now." "Oh, Andrea, that's what we're talking about," said Joellen. "You'll also need a hairdo that can cover your ears when you want to hide them, isn't that true? And show them off when you're wearing something especially pretty. So I need to cut and set your hair. It's nice you've let it grow out, it gives me something to work with. I think enough. Enough after your perm, anyhow." "What perm??!!" I shouted, and started to get out of the chair. Monica came around and stared directly at me. "Andrea, behave! I told you this would have to be done in stages. If I'm going to be continue to be married to a man who likes looking like a woman, he will have to look like a presentable woman. And that's that! I think you get my meaning!" I did. I quieted down. "I tried ignoring you and pretending you were the man I thought I married. It didn't work. Not for long, anyhow. Now you're going to be the woman I also married, and I want you to be an even better woman than you've been a man. But in stages, so you can get used to things, and learn them. Understood?" Not really, but I didn't dare do anything other than nod my head. "My dear," Joellen added in a quieter voice, gently. "I thought you knew. A perm makes hair much more manageable. Then you can set it any way you want. Swept back like a man's might even look cute, with your face. All right?" What could I say? I nodded to her too. Three demoralized hours later, Joellen whisked the last of her pink cover-sheets from around my neck and said "There! Now that's just lovely! Nothing freakish about you at all! I think you can go anywhere you wish, and Monica will be proud to accompany you." Monica was herself sitting in another chair at the far end of the salon, reading a magazine and glancing at my progress now and then. She looked up and studied me, then nodded. "Yes, wonderful! That's perfect, Joellen. Really lovely. Thank you. Andrea, I think we'll move the schedule ahead and go to the next stage tonight. You need more self-confidence. Looking the way you do, I think you'll finish tonight feeling pleased with yourself. Just look!" I looked. Oh, my ears were pierced all right, and there were little gold posts poked through the holes until the skin could heal over. For the rest of my life there would be little pieces of metal on my ears, I realized, or else little tell-tale dimples. The thought should have been depressing, but to my surprise I didn't much mind. Not at all. Moreover, my hair was cut and curled up and back, into cute waves softly framing my face. Oddly, now that it was curved and waved and shaped it looked shorter -- it occupied more space around my head, but my neck was now visible. And Joellen was right, if I wanted to hide my ears it was now a simple matter to comb some of the side curls back over them. I could even do it with my fingertips, fluff out my hair a little the way she showed me. Not too bad. Of course I'll have to try to brush it straight back when I get home, I thought, so it looks less...well...feminine. I'd wondered how women got that "big" hair look. Gels, sprays, and a body perm underneath it all, Joellen had told me. I supposed that gels and sprays could also return some semblance of a manly look. More troublesome were my eyebrows. They were plucked thin and high and arch, giving my face a refined and delicate cast. Neat, well-groomed, but definitely not a man's brows. I would have no trouble passing as a woman with that hairdo and those eyebrows. The problem would come when I tried to pass as a man. With my face as it is, I would look like a girl wearing a suit and jacket, I thought. I'd always had a "weak" chin, implying a lack of manly determination But now it just looked small. Cute. Just right. Maybe I should grow a beard, I thought? But no. I've never had much facial hair, and a beard would ruin the effect when I was dressing in private anyhow. But even this thought didn't depress me. All this was what I had wanted, more or less. And it was certainly what Monica wanted. "Monica," I said a little helplessly. "A little eye-makeup, Joellen?" Monica said to her. "Just a touch. I think we'll celebrate Andrea's new face by going out to dinner. A casual dinner, we're not really dressed for anything fancy. But we don't want anyone to think she isn't who she is, now, do we." This last was for my benefit, reminding me I had better act as ladylike as I could, or else suffer the embarrassment I dreaded. I also registered that it was the first time Monica had ever called me "she". It seemed so casual and natural as she said it. Joellen made a few quick strokes on my eyelids, and while she was at it she added a few strokes of dark red lipstick too. "There!" she said. "Just lovely!" I looked in the mirror, and couldn't disagree. "Come on, dear," Monica said, picking up her purse. "I know you love to admire yourself in the mirror. But if you're going to be a real woman you'll have to learn to use mirrors just to be sure you look the way you wish, and let other people do the admiring." As we left the shop I protested, "Monica, this is too fast. I'm not going to be a real woman. Where did you get that notion?" "Why, from you, dear. Isn't that what you've been dreaming in secret, dressing up all those years? But now that you're on the sidewalk looking like a woman, remember that people can see you. Stand straight and hold your head high, and push out your breasts. Young girls can slouch, but not women. You have a lot yet to learn. You need to do more than look like a woman. You have to behave like a woman, and move like one, and feel yourself to be a woman in your heart. Or you'll fool no one." "Monica, after all these years, why all of a sudden are you encouraging me? I don't understand." "You will, dear. Before too much longer. Meanwhile, why don't you count your blessings?" III. Our dinner was uneventful, and even pleasant. No, it was better than that. It turned out to be delightful, because despite all of my fears about the way I looked, nothing happened. The "first time" experiences accumulated so fast I didn't even notice many of them after a while, and Monica had to remind me about them. Monica drove to a modest-priced Italian restaurant, and when I saw it was crowded I protested. "No, that's what we want, dear, for you to be out among lots of people who are paying no attention to you, so you can begin to get used to it. Just remember we're ordinary girls out for dinner and a movie, or something, and don't give it another thought. Of course if you're still nervous about the way you look, you're in pants, so you can believe you still look like a man. But no one else will. Joellen did a fine job with you. Wait and see." As she got out of the car she looked at me again. "Small steps, dear, and for the present, one foot in front of the other, so you sway your hips just a bit. I think heels might help. No more flats or sneakers for the time being. And you'll need to carry a purse from now on when we're out together. For now no one will notice." The Maitre D' came over. "A party of two, or are you expecting others to join you?" Others?! The thought flashed across my mind that this whole dinner might be another setup. A terrified pang pierced my vitals! "Monica!" I whispered, not trusting my voice, pleading. "No, just the two of us tonight," she told the Maitre D'." Then to me, seeing my face, she said. "Don't worry, dear. I have other plans altogether." "It will be perhaps ten minutes before I can seat you, ladies. Would you like to wait in the bar?" I followed her in and sat down on an adjoining bar stool. "Oh, my, Andrea, you need to practice everything," she said. "A lady does not climb on a bar stool one haunch at a time. She steps up on the rail, braces with both hands on the edge of the bar, and then settles down onto the stool with her legs together. Like a lady." The bartender came over. "I'll have a vodka on rocks," she said. Then she looked at me and waited. I was on my own. "A doub...." My voice was much too high. I lowered it a little, and decided to try gentle and breathy too. "A double vodka on the rocks, please." The bartender turned away. "Not bad, dear," my wife said, amused. "A little like Jackie Kennedy, but not at all bad. There are worse models. Now, see how many firsts already? You've been called a lady, you're out and passing with over fifty people paying no attention to you, you've learned to sit down at a bar, which can be an essential skill in the months ahead, and you've used a woman's voice to get what you want. Do you think you'll be all right using the ladies' room by yourself later, or will you want me to come with you? Try the men's room now, and you'd cause a riot. Maybe even get raped. Wouldn't that be a first? From now on, dear, you have to think about such things." The bartender set down our glasses, and she went on. "Look at that! My but they're generous here. And yours is a double? Well, I suppose those tranquilizers I gave you back at the house have worn off by now, so I suppose it's all right." "You gave me tranquilizers? Is that why I haven't been scared to death of everything you've been doing to me?" I remembered only at the last second to tone down my voice. "Of course, dear. Do you mind, now that it's done? I'd never have gotten you out of the house and into a beautician's chair without them. You know that. And now look at us. Two girls out together. Your dream come true. Isn't it?" "Yes," I had to confess. My voice was a little husky. "Thank you, dear. But you've never answered my question, why are you being so nice to me now, after years of hating..." I hesitated, and finished lamely, "of not wanting to know about...everything like this." The Maitre d' called out "Jackson, party of two," and Monica said, "That's us. Or strictly speaking, that's you, Andrea. Andrea Jackson, isn't that sweet? Easy to remember, too. I'll keep my married name of course, and Andrew will too whenever he needs a name, but Andrea needed a new name. Do you like it? It's her maiden name. She's not married." She was teasing me again, and I didn't know what to reply. As we were shown to the table and the Maitre held out my chair for me, I slipped in as daintily as I could, and smiled at him, and sat down. "But why," I asked again. "Why now?" "Quite simply, because I realized not long ago that a husband who wants to feel like a woman is what I want. It's what I need. I want you to be look and feel the way you are right now all the time. Even more so. Much more so. Like I said, I have plans. For both of us." Her voice had lost all of its teasing banter. She was quite serious, and as she turned to look directly at me and continued she sounded even more serious. "Andrea, do you love me?" she asked soberly. "You know I do." "Do you trust me?" "Yes, of course." "Not 'of course.' I mean really." I hesitated, and decided to jump off the cliff. "Yes," I said. "I trust you." I meant it. Unequivocally. "Good," she said, and she smiled so happily it nearly broke my heart to see it, she looked so beautiful. "Then trust me. You won't regret it. I promise. And we may yet grow old and feebleminded together." "Monica, is this something serious?" "Not any more, sweetheart. Shall we order, and then visit the ladies' together?" "I'd like that," I said. The final "first time" of the night was, when we got home, Monica asked me to fix my makeup, slip into a short, frilly nightie, and make love to her like a woman. Previously she'd shown no desire in oral sex, and after a while I'd quit trying to interest her. Our sex lives together were fine, I thought. We usually fucked gently and devotedly, one atop the other according to mood, or alongside, and she kissed my mouth, and I kissed her mouth and suckled on her nipples, and we both came, beautifully, usually together. And that was it. It was wonderful. I loved it, and thought she did too. We had no need for contraceptives or worries about pregnancy, because Monica had no patience with children and wanted none, I had no special feelings either way at the time, and we had both agreed as a condition of our marrying that I should get a vasectomy. As I did. Our sex was always pleasant, generous, and without anxiety. But this time as I kissed the tips of her tits she wrapped her arms around my head and cried out, "Oh!" so passionately, and then "Oh!" again and again, that I almost came on her belly. I'm sure she orgasmed as I nursed her, and she clasped my head tightly to her soft, swelling breasts, first one, then the other, then the first again. "They're so very sensitive!" she said. Then she said, "Let me!" and began to suckle on my teats, small as they were. Gradually a strange and exotic feeling seemed to emanate from her mouth into my breasts, and she reached down to pull gently on my penis while she nursed on me. The feeling grew stronger, and became my whole body's, and as she sucked and pulled and licked I finally came too, in one single grand unclenching, as if all of me was a single throbbing organ. "Now turn, and lick it up, and lick me, my darling," she whispered into my ear. "I want to kiss your clit." An exceptional request, but I was enraptured, and turned and began licking my cum from where it had spread like syrup into her navel and all over her swelling, smooth, white belly. Slowly I worked down to her crotch. As my tongue found her clit and my nose began fucking her slit, I felt my limp penis enter her mouth, all warm and wet and delicious, and I felt her tongue working over it, and her lips wrapped around it at the base, pumping, until half-hard, I came again. She swallowed my juice with little squeals as her hips bucked into my face and she came yet again too. Afterward we slept wrapped up snug in each other, a sweet tension spreading through me each time she moved against me. That was how we made love from then on. It was like falling in love all over again. The next morning she asked me to shave and use a depillatory, and I was delighted to oblige. Then she looked so sadly disappointed when I dressed in jeans and a shirt to take some papers to the office that I faxed them in, then changed to a skirt and blouse, and as she requested, two-inch heels. Then between short sweet kisses, my lipsticked mouth on hers, she told me I felt wonderful wrapped around her, but she'd like me to use some softening lotions on my hands, and she'd love for me to begin a regimen of shots and pills to make my skin just a little smoother and my body softer, more rounded. I could deny her nothing, so that very morning she sent me to a special doctor who told me that many women and some men prefer their bodies that way. I was wearing a skirt and light makeup, as Monica put it, "so we can play on the street with our little secret." I felt awkward, a little silly, but the doctor didn't seem to notice or mind. The first shots she gave me induced a kind of euphoria, and when I commented on it to the nurse she said, "Yes, the doctor puts in just a little extra so her women patients will enjoy their new selves all the more. And to overcome possible nausea or tummy aches from intensive treatments like yours. Don't forget to take your pills every day." Each night we made love the way women do with each other. As a few weeks passed my skin became smoother, and soon my nipples became hard and pointy, sticking out from my chest, so deliciously sensitive that I felt complete only when Monica's lips were wrapped around them and pulsing gently. Then it was ecstasy! She kept my penis so drained and softened that I couldn't have entered her even if she'd wished it. But I'd almost forgotten that I ever had wanted to. She went in to work daily, as before, seeing clients and selling real estate, and sitting in her office plotting how to see and sell even more. As ever I did all the housework and prepared all the meals, and faxed in my contracts and figures whenever I was asked for them. But now I dressed like a woman full time. She was always disappointed when she came home and found me dressed like a husband and not a wife, so I gave up on being her husband. I dieted down to where I could wear some of her prettiest clothes, denied only her tight, snug outfits, and we acquired some of my own for me on several afternoons spent shopping at the mall. That was a lovely time, giggling together like schoolgirls. She'd comment how the boys would love to see me wearing this rather daring outfit, or that one, and we'd laugh and hug each other. She asked me to point out fellas I thought looked especially cute, and if she agreed with me we'd speculate how this one was hung, or how long that one would last inside one of us, and then giggle really wickedly. In fact, Monica seemed to feel sorry for me that I'd had no girlhood of my own, and she talked to me all the time about hers, and about some of her friends'. Everything from how it felt to shop with her mother for her first training bra to games played with dolls, to gossip about boys and dates, and curiosity about sex, and first crushes on guys. Then in detail that made me uneasy at first, about her various experiences with men, cock sucking and seducing them and getting laid, crudely or romantically, depending upon time, place, and the man she was with. Like one intimate girlfriend to another, she'd talk to me about her experiences and feelings making love with different college boys, or with various business associates before she'd met me. She'd talk about how cocks feel in a girl's mouth or pussy, even while we were making love ourselves. She told me how she had once taken a man into her rear end, when he had insisted on it, and found it wasn't too bad. "It felt all snug and comfy," she said. "And that night I swallowed his cum at both ends." Sometimes she'd forget herself altogether, and say things like, "You know how it is, when you run your lips up and down a huge cock trying to bring a guy off, and his precum keeps dribbling onto your tongue and tasting sweetly salty, but your jaw aches and you wish he'd headfuck you and get it over with?" It was as if she were back in college dating, and I was her room mate. Or, "I remember the first fully erected prick I saw -- a huge turkey neck it looked like, but that royal purple head felt so satiny smooth on my lips when I kissed it that I didn't care. Was your first one like that?" Or, "Oh, Andrea, have you ever had a really glorious, delirious fuck, felt filled so completely that the least movement was rapture for you, and each time he pulled out became a hunger for him to plunge himself into you again?" Monica seemed to forget that I wasn't a woman, and when I reminded her that I could only imagine such things, she'd cover me with kisses as if trying to make up to me for my deficient girlhood. She really wanted to believe I was her best girlfriend, and to share everything with me! Increasingly my pleasure while making love to her, as we kissed and licked and lapped and sucked and caressed each other, as women do, blended with her pleasure remembering different men in her past. I didn't mind -- I wanted to share everything I felt with my new sweetheart too. I once asked her if she'd ever had sex with a lesbian, and she said "Before we were married, yes. But since then, only with you, my darling. I do hope to straighten you out soon, though, so you can also enjoy men too the way I do." Had she so completely imagined me to be a woman that she had momentarily forgotten that her wife was a man. Or was it the other way around? It was confusing, but either way it was flattering, and rather dear. Our jewelry, earrings, and accessories we decreed held in common, and we were each delighted when we saw that one was wearing what had been the other's. Sometimes we went to small, intimate restaurants like two old girlfriends, or to movies. When for some reason Andrew had to replace Andrea to visit and deal with officialdom downtown, or go to the office, I couldn't wait to get back home and be myself again. They were months of pure bliss. IV. One morning while we were dressing, Monica for the office and me to do some shopping for dinner that night, Monica said to me, "Oh, never mind that. We've been invited out." It took a moment for that casual remark to sink in and astonish me. "What?" I said "By who? How?" "Oh, don't look so shocked! It's nothing! I told two of the girls we deal with at the office about you, that you're pretty much house bound these days, and they asked me to bring you over for dinner to help clear the cobwebs out of your mind. It's nice to meet other people now and then. That's all!" "That's all? Do you mean meet them as Andrew or as Andrea?" "Of course as Andrea, silly. I'm proud of you, and want to show you off. You've come such a long way. Though your hair could use a touch up. Don't worry. Run over to Joellen's this afternoon and tell her to do her magic, and I'll pick you up at six. I think your green silk taffeta would be fine." She paused to appraise me. "Ask her to lighten your hair just a touch, and to do your nails. You're a lovely woman now, Andrea, and you have nothing to hide. Time to move on." I took that to mean she had to leave now, so the discussion was over, so I asked hastily, "Wait a minute. Are these...er...girls married? Will they have dates? Will there be men at this dinner?" For some reason I felt ashamed to be seen by men who knew I was a man. I'd sacrificed all of my manliness, willingly, but they might be offended or amused by it, and think me ridiculous. "You *are* a shy one, aren't you, love. 'No' to the first question and 'Maybe' to the second. Denise and Tinka are lesbians who have lived together for years and are a respectable couple, like us. Denise is pregnant, and they're both looking forward to having the baby. Then a boy friend may show -- she wasn't sure. A friend who's a boy, named Eric. He's the baby's father. But there's no problem between them about it, because he's gay. He wouldn't even screw her once, not even to please a dear friend, so they had to use a gravy baster to deal with his donation. An ideal stud, because all he wants from them ever is conversation. I've met him. He's no way effeminate, just not attracted to women. They're nice people. You'll enjoy them. And they're really looking forward to meeting you! Tell Joellen I'd love to see you in bangs, I think you'd look just darling. Ta ta!" And she was gone. I scheduled my session with Joellen for the early afternoon, right after my weekly shot, and I felt so good when I waltzed in that I didn't notice at first that Joellen had four other customers having things done to them, and two other operators combing, teasing, polishing, doing what needed doing. The place was packed! Joellen saw me and came over saying, "There you are, Andrea dear, just sit right here and we'll get right to you. My you look lovely! Your skin seems so much smoother today. Are you doing anything for it?" "Monica thought I'd feel better if I took some shots," I said with a nervous little laugh. "And I must say, I certainly do!" "I'll bet!" said Joellen. "Well, let's lighten you and tidy you up for tonight. Monica called and told me what she wants. I agree with her about having bangs, now that your hair's a bit longer. You'll look adorable. But now that you're really into it, this time we go the distance. Nails, facial, waxing, everything. Monica tells me you're never going back. Welcome to the world of women, honey! You'll love it! We should probably talk about some permanent changes to your face, but that can come later." I'd never told Monica I was never going back, I thought to myself. We'd never discussed it. Did I want to be a woman for good? Well, right now I just loved being a woman with my wife, and that was good enough for me for now. When I left Joellen, there was a spring in my step, and my nails were long and red, and my face felt so perfect it might have been lacquered on. I spent the rest of the afternoon dressing, and practicing my postures and gestures, walking daintily, staying loose-wristed, talking all up and down the scale instead of in a male monotone, things like that. I felt very good about my upcoming coming-out dinner party, and felt like celebrating something. When Monica arrived home to change she was pleased to hear me humming and singing in the kitchen in my sweetest falsetto, no longer nervous. She suggested we have a drink before we left, because the girls were likely to serve only wine. But on top of whatever the doctor gave me I was already two drinks ahead of her, feeling no pain at all. I remember the first part of the evening well enough, but very little of the rest of it, and nothing at all about how I got home and into bed. In fact the next morning when I woke up, Monica was already half-way out the door to work, with time for only a few amused, cryptic remarks, something about how some girls can't wait to make up for lost time, and how I'd certainly never need a gravy baster. Then as I stepped into the shower I noticed that my rear end was crusty with something or other. But I didn't realize what until later that morning when I was rinsing some of our lingerie. Monica's panties were only lightly soiled, with that heavy, musky aroma I was learning to love dearly, I spent so much time with my nose in her crotch. Mine were stiff with a clear dried fluid in front, which I recognized as my post-vasectomy cum. I wondered how it got there. But the seat of my prettiest panties, the ones I'd worn last night, was stiff with dried, thick stains and streaks, gobbets of them, and I realized it was someone else's heavily laden sperm. What had happened? What had I done?! I spent the day agonized, fearful I had thrown away my new precious relationship with my beloved wife, worried I might have done some perverse thing to disgust her, that now she would leave me. So when Monica got home I met her at the door with a Martini, and with many kisses and flourishes I fed her the most elaborate meal I knew how to cook. She seemed untroubled. But she'd also seemed untroubled the first day after she'd caught me wearing a dress, that time we nearly broke up over it. That's how she was until she'd calculated how to deal with a problem. Over dessert I asked her, as casually as I could, what I had done at Denise and her lesbian friend's house. "You really don't remember any of it?" she asked me, her eyebrows raised. "Not at all?" "The early part," I replied. "The delicious dinner with Denise and Tinka, I think that was her name. She's a wonderful cook. Four kinds of wine, and she kept refilling my glass I'm afraid. Denise looked huge, almost ready to deliver, but still very beautiful, glowing, and Tinka was looking forward to taking care of the baby when Denise goes back to work and returns to a heavy schedule of out-of-town selling trips. But can that be right?" "That's right. When the baby's born Tinka will take over. That's how they mean to share the child-rearing. Tinka will do it all. She's the homebody, loves cooking and keeping house, and so on. Denise isn't." "Now how is it I already know that?" "You went upstairs with Tinka to look at her recipe files, and promised to send her some of your own. You took a long while at it. She told us you got to talking with her about breast feeding as against bottles. One thing led to another, and you started sampling the alternatives, apparently. Then fell asleep. She said that you looked and felt so sweet at her breast that she hated to take her nipple out of your mouth and wake you." Monica then grinned broadly. "Don't look so agonized, sweetheart. I didn't mind. It's a normal instinct. I love nursing on your breasts too, such as they are, as you know. And you on mine." "Yes." "Anyhow, when you were safely downstairs again and had fixed your face, both women marveled at the way you look now, how convincing a woman you've become. So they decided to put you to the test." "What test?" I was afraid I was getting closer to solving a mystery I didn't really want to solve. Monica let out a rich laugh, and gestured to her coffee cup. I hastened to refill it. "Why my dear, dear Andrea, you really don't remember?" She scrutinized me closely. "No, you don't, do you! What a shame! Every girl remembers her first, but it seems you don't, so now you'll have to have your first all over again. In a way that means you're still a virgin!" "Monica, please!" I couldn't tell if she sounded sympathetic or mocking. "What did I do? Did I do anything wrong? Will you forgive me?" "Come to the couch, and we'll cuddle, and I'll tell you everything, love." Like a guilty puppy hoping for forgiveness, I followed her into the living room. She lay down on the couch with her head on the arm rest, and I lay down alongside her, tears now running down my face. "You need to use waterproof mascara, darling, if you mean to be so emotional in the future. And I can tell you're wearing Enjoli for me tonight. That was very considerate." "Monica, whatever I did, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I don't want to lose you! Tell me you still love me!" "Of course I do, pet. And there's nothing to be sorry about. It was everything I'd hoped for for you. Except that now you're going to have to do it again, so you'll have memories of it to carry into your old age." She waited until I stopped sobbing into her shoulder, then continued. "Denise decided that Eric could provide an ultimate test of just how feminine you'd become. You remember Denise's sperm donor? Eric? No? Not even his face? Well, Eric must be the world's strictest homosexual, who loves boys and men of all kinds, and women of no kind. Who won't ever let a woman touch him for any reason? Well, when you came back downstairs again Eric had just arrived, expecting to meet my roommate, the woman I've been living with lately so far as he knew. Tinka described what you'd just been doing, how lovingly you'd been suckling at her breast, and Denise wondered aloud if you would suckle on a prick just as lovingly." "I was trying to stay neutral, so I just said I didn't know. But Eric knew from the moment you walked back into the room that you were not born female, and he seized the opportunity. 'Here, Andrea darling, suckle this,' he said to you without a second's hesitation, and he pulled out, well, I must say, a monster prick. My dear, you may not have a woman's chromosomes, but you certainly have a woman's instincts and desires. Without a second's hesitation you dropped to your knees between his knees and kissed the tip. Then you felt his crown all around with the insides of your lips, running your tongue all around that silky smoothness I've talked about now and then. Then you licked and sucked Eric's whole shaft so lovingly and passionately that we each of us wished we were men, while we watched, so you could do us too. It was the finest blow job I've witnessed, with far more intensity and finesse than I've ever been able to bring to the job. But as you know, I've never been much interested in oral sex. Until recently." "Then when Eric reached his climax, you swallowed him up without a slurp. It seemed as if he were pumping gallons down your throat, and you swallowed it all, as if grateful for it and hoping for more. I got so wet watching you that I would have leaped on Eric myself, if he'd have let me. He'd never, of course. "Then after the shortest possible recovery, less than five minutes, while you were still licking his cock clean, he gently turned you around and laid you belly down across Denise's hassock, and lifted your dress and pulled down your panties, and with your own saliva still drenching his cock, he entered you from the rear. You gave such a delicious groan as he went in. I was so happy for you. And you groaned again as he pulled out and then re-entered you, and then again, faster and faster as he fucked you, until you reached a crescendo and your groans had become pulsating shrieks as he came, and you came, simultaneously. No girl ever lost her cherry more gloriously! And you don't remember any of it? What a terrible pity!" "So darling, in a way you passed the test wonderfully. Your behavior with Eric was immediately, instinctively a woman's. But you failed the test too, because he immediately took you to be a drag queen or transsexual woman, not a genetic woman, and immediately got the hots for you. We argued whether that in itself was relevant evidence of your true femininity, but Eric said he feels the same way about Sylvester Stallone, so we decided that it couldn't count." "Then Tinka proposed a tie breaker, and it was so effortless that I'll remember it all the days of my life. She was helping you adjust your panties again, and we were wondering whether you needed a tampon or maxipad to get you home, there was so much of Eric's cum flowing out of you, when suddenly she lifted your dress all the way over your head, and lowered your slip off your shoulders, and took off your bra, and sat you down on the floor and sat down alongside you, and took you by the shoulders and began to suckle on you. You know, your little titties really aren't much more than pointy nipples yet, but there's enough there to fill someone's mouth, and Tinka began nursing. Denise joked "Tit for tat," but then we fell silent, because something so beautiful happened. Obviously you were going on instinct alone. Your mind wasn't really there, hadn't been for some time. But your arms came up as if by a miracle, and you ever so gently, so lovingly cradled her head in your arms, and pressed her face to your breast, and held her, and rocked her ever so slightly. Tears came to everyone's eyes. Even Eric's. I suppose no one can be unmoved by the sight of a mother gently nourishing her infant. That's what you seemed to be doing with Tinka." "Darling, everyone agrees you have true womanly instincts, that you are absolutely convincing, absolutely persuasive. And now think of it! You've also had sex with a man, and enjoyed it. You know what it's like. Now if you want to flirt with a guy and then feel an urge to go the distance, you can, like any other woman. I don't mind, as long as it's with a man, as long as I'm the only real woman in your life. You're the only woman in mine. Please, dear. Take me to you right now. I want to pleasure you. I do love you." What could I say? What could I do? I lowered my blouse, and unhooked my bra, and nursed my darling first on one of my pouting nipples, then the other, while the most delicious feelings arose as her mouth pulsed on me. I looked down on her dark, curved hair, and I have never felt so tender, so utterly warm and joyous. I whispered my affection and she kissed me, and I kissed her. And then we went to bed and made love as only women can. V. A month or so later we were still at it. I had forgotten what it was like to wear men's clothes, and Monica seemed to be so utterly enraptured by my femininity that I couldn't think of displaying anything else to her. True, I had been unfaithful to her when I had made love to Eric, and Eric had made love to me. But somehow that didn't seem to be a violation of my marriage vows. It wasn't with another woman but with a man, a gay man, and I wasn't even aware of it, at least afterward. So Monica thought what the other women thought, that it was merely evidence I had become one of them, except for the technicality that had made it possible for me to relate to Eric. She only regretted that it hadn't happened years earlier, when I was still a teenage girl, so I could have weaved romantic dreams around my memory of it. She only regretted that I had no memory of it at all. I was still doing cost estimates on various projects and faxing in the results, and still earning a good income, but no one in the office had seen me for many weeks, and I was thinking of quitting and just setting up full time as a homemaker for the two of us. It was what I much preferred doing. And keeping myself pretty for Monica took time. Monica encouraged me. She was working very hard, many days and evenings spent out with clients showing them real estate. But that was what she loved to do, so it never seemed taxing to her. She was herself her firm's top salesman, and we were banking most of her high commissions on each sale, because we didn't need them to live on. Financially we were set. As she pointed out, the difference between more money than you need and a lot more money than you need is no difference at all. We had no children, and no plans for children, nor any possibility of having them, so it was pointless for us to save for their futures. We lived in our own present. I had begun faxing recipes back and forth with Tinka, and I longed to have more time to try out more of them. We neither of us again referred to the incidents of that night when my mouth and my rear end lost their virginity -- that too was in the past. At least we never again referred to that night until the week I finally quit my job. We both were looking for some way to celebrate my elevation to homemaker full-time, when coincidentally Monica learned she had won a quarterly sales competition run by her firm. The prize was a long weekend free in the most luxurious resort hotel in the state, complete with a suitable new wardrobe, for ourselves and also for any other couple we chose to bring along for company. We selected Denise and Tinka, the only other couple we'd seen since that lovely evening some months back when Monica had changed her mind and heart about my cross-dressing, and had led me into the womanliness I now loved, and she apparently loved too. Then we all had a fine time selecting new lingerie, dresses, skirts, blouses, shoes, accessories, makeup, everything a woman needs to be stylish and beautiful and playful at a resort. Denise reserved her credits against the day her figure would return to some semblance of acceptable, and Tinka's new wardrobe stressed nursing bras and front-buttoning blouses. But once again, Monica and I were like schoolgirls vying with each other to purchase the most tasteful yet sexy outfits we could find, giggling together the whole time. It was such fun! The night before we were due to leave, Denise had a false labor scare, the first of several as it turned out. So Denise and Tinka didn't dare come with us. We decided to hold the two double reserved rooms by renaming the occupants Mr. and Mrs. Sloan, my married name with Monica, and Ms Jackson, my "maiden" name. We hoped Denise and Tinka would change their minds, but if not, maybe we'd find some other use for a separate room. "Maybe you'll get lucky, and you won't want me around," Monica said. I kissed her reassuringly. Apparently, something else did occur to Monica. As we approached the hotel desk she whispered to me "Just follow my lead, and go along with whatever I say." "What do you mean?" I asked. "Never mind," Monica replied. "You trust me, don't you? Remember?" "Yes," I said. "Absolutely!" "Then act sexy. Feel sexy. Swish your hips. See if you can distract the registration clerk. Since you're here as a girl, start enjoying the fun parts of it." I tried, but the main person distracted was me, because I never noticed that Monica was registering us into two separate rooms, until the clerk announced, "There we are. 407 Mrs. Sloan, and 409 Ms. Jackson, adjoining rooms with a door that can be locked on either side. Will your husband be joining you later today, Mrs. Sloan?" I was taken aback, but Monica seemed to be expecting the question. "I don't know when if ever, " she said to the clerk. "But just a moment." Then she turned to me, and looked me straight in the eye, and said, "Andrea dear, what do you think? Think carefully now. Will my husband be here this week end, as far as you know?" A strange question. I wi