The Draft Dodger Rag free porn video

Please obtain The Professor's permission before posting elsewhere Draft Dodger Rag By The Professor Copyright (c) The Professor, 1999 "Hell no! We won't go! Hell no! We won't go!" The chanting was getting louder, coming up Telegraph and moving in the direction of the Berkley campus. My apartment was only a block of Telegraph, and in the warm June air, the drone of the chanting sounded almost as if it were happening right outside my pad. Anti war activity had picked up in the last few months. It was funny. The fall before, the Johnson administration was talking about an end to the war in Vietnam by '68. Then came the Tet Offensive in early '68, blowing their prediction right out of the water. Instead of coming to an end, the seemingly endless conflict in Southeast Asia was becoming the longest war in American history. I should probably be out there chanting with them, I thought. After all, they were playing my song. Here I was, of eligible age for the draft, with a lottery number certain to put me in olive drab the minute my draft board discovered I had flunked out of school. And hell no, I wouldn't go. Frankly I didn't really have anything against the war - as long as I didn't have to fight it. The idea of slogging through hot jungles just waiting for someone to spring out of the bushes and kill me had no appeal. Two guys I knew from high school had already bought the farm, and I didn't want to be the third. By all rights, I should have been pro military. After all, my dad was a West Point graduate. He had been commissioned in 1943, taking his commission in the Marine Corps (yes, you can do that sort of thing -and in the Second World War, it was fairly common). The old man loved war. He really lived for it. Then, at Iwo Jima, he lost his legs to a Japanese land mine. That ended his career real quick. In some ways, it ended his life. People I talked to who knew him before the war said he had changed a lot, and not for the better. Losing your legs would do that sort of thing. By the time I came along, he was well on his way to becoming the grizzled war vet I grew up around. From the moment he wheeled himself into the house from his civil service job until the time he went to bed, I was weaned on a steady diet of duty to my country. I should be proud to fight for my country, I was told countless times. It would make me into a man. Well, fine, but I wanted to be a man complete with two arms and two legs. The final break between the old man and me was right after I had graduated from high school. That was when mom died, and she was really the only thing that held dad and I together. She had wanted me to go to college, but I really had no desire to do so. Now, dad wanted me to go enlist. "You're nothing but a sissy," he told me from his favorite spot on the patio in back of our house. Mom's funeral had only been two days before - her life cut short in a senseless auto crash. With mom gone, the old man had pressed hard to get me to enlist, knowing that without mom's pressure, I wouldn't go to college. But I had crossed him. I had told him I wanted to be a commercial artist. I was a good sketch artist. In fact, my friends in high school had jokingly said I should hang out down at Fisherman's Wharf and draw cartoons of the tourists for five bucks each. It was tempting, but I had a better deal yet. One of my classmates had a father who worked for an ad agency in the city. He got me a job as an artist, so my future looked pretty good even without college. "I've got a good job lined up," I told him, trying not to get mad. I was six-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, and I had lettered three years in football (as a wide receiver) and basketball (as a guard), so I was hardly a sissy. "You're gonna be one of those arty fairies," he grumbled. "Hell, even college would have been better than this." We argued for a few minutes more, but it basically came down to the "you aren't any son of mine" crap. I moved out that night and never saw him again. I suspect we were both happy about that. I know I was. Life was pretty good for awhile. I had grown up in a small town in the Napa Valley, so San Francisco was a different world for me. I didn't make much money, so I lived cheaply, but my prospects looked good. My employers liked my work, and they didn't mind my doing a little work on the side to supplement my income. Then there was the trust fund. Two months after I got to the city, my grandfather died. My mother and I were his only two living blood relatives, and since mom was gone, he left everything to me. Everything consisted of more than a couple of hundred grand. It was left in trust for me. I could get $25,000 when I turned twenty-one and the balance when I turned twenty-five. There was an important exception, though. If I went to college (and gramps knew that was my mother's fondest hope), I could start drawing the money early and still get the twenty five grand at twenty one. I didn't, though. I wasn't in any hurry to get the money, and I didn't want to go to college, so let the money ride, I thought. Then came the war. Unlike other wars in our nation's history, this one started slowly. Hell, it didn't even seem like a war at all -just a few advisors and support personnel. Then just before the start of my senior year of high school, the Gulf of Tonkin Incident occurred. The next thing we all knew, there was a war going on. By the time I graduated from high school, the war was for real, but I came from an area where the Draft Board managed to fill its quota with mostly enlistees. I didn't think much about it. Then within three months of my graduation, the shadow of the draft loomed longer and darker. I tried to get into the National Guard, but their quota filled quickly. I thought about enlisting in the Navy or Air Force, but it was the same story. I didn't have a steady girlfriend, so getting married to stay out was out of the question. There was only one way I could think of to avoid the draft - I would have to go to college. It was either college or Canada, and I didn't care much for cold weather. It was then that I did something really stupid. Instead of going to one of the diploma mills which had sprung up around the country to service the baby boomers avoiding the war, I went to Cal Berkley. I mean, I really didn't want to go to college in the first place, so why pick a school with high academic standards? Why not go to some little podunk school with classes as easy as those I had taken in high school? The answer was simple. I loved the Bay Area. It was the center of the psychedelic culture of the sixties, and although I was fairly moderate in my use of recreational drugs, Berkley was where it was at, man. I actually did okay my first year. I stayed in the dorms, made a few friends, and took a general if easy course load - just enough hours to be a full time student, thus avoiding the draft. I carried a mundane C average and partied while less fortunate young men went off to Southeast Asia, many coming back like my father - if they came back at all. My second year, I decided to live off campus. I rented a little basement apartment not far from campus and proceeded to turn it into my very own crash pad. Although I knew many guys my age who got into the drug scene in a much bigger way, I must have smoked one joint too many or scored one lid of acid too much, for at the end of my second year, I had a letter from the University informing me that my presence in their hallowed halls was no longer desired. So there I was - potential cannon fodder. National Guard was still out of the question since their quotas were filled, and enlistments were at an all-time high, taking all the desirable spots, so the bloody finger of the draft and a one-way ticket to beautiful Southeast Asia were probably only days away. So what did I do about it that summer afternoon? I did what every guy does who has a phony ID and has just flunked out of college does - I went drinking with my friends. "Tough luck, Terry," Brad Sanford said over his beer. Brad had been my roommate in the dorms the year before. He and I had partied hardy, but he had managed to keep his grades just high enough to stay in school. Of course, the fact that he had elected to stay on campus instead of rooming with me off campus might have had something to do with it. He was taller and heavier than me, with almost black hair instead of my auburn shade. Like me, he sported long sideburns, longish hair and a bushy mustache. In other words, we were quite stylish for the sixties. "Yeah, tough luck, man," Tommy Montgomery echoed. Tommy was Brad's new roommate. Unlike Brad and I, Tommy's nondescript brown hair was a little shorter and he sported no facial hair. Some of the guys kidded him, saying he looked like a government agent. A few even thought he really was some kind of a government agent, sent in to check on anti-war activities, but Brad and I didn't believe it. We reasoned that a government agent - if there even was one - would try to blend in better. Tommy was just a couple of years older - the true leading edge of the boomer generation - and his style was just a little more conservative. "I gotta do something," I moaned as our waiter brought us another round. "I hear Canada is real nice this time of year." I shivered thinking of the cold weather. Better cold weather than a stone cold body. "Yeah," Brad agreed, "but I hear they're getting really shitty about Americans going up there to avoid the draft. I've even heard they've let some US agents go up there and haul a few guys back." I hadn't heard that, but it made sense. Hey, it was the sixties. Nobody in college trusted the government. We didn't trust anybody over thirty. In fact, for most of us, twenty-five was sort of pushing the envelope. If somebody walked in the bar and told us that the US Army was using vampires and werewolves to kill babies at a secret site inside Grand Central Station, the majority of us would have believed it. "It's true, man," Drew Keane chimed in. Drew was really our bad boy. He was the one we all went to when we needed pot or LSD. He seemed to have all the contacts we needed. He was about my size and actually looked a little like me. The main difference was that he had longish surfer blond hair while mine was a reddish brown. And he lacked my drooping, almost red mustache. "I knew a guy who went to Vancouver a couple of months ago. He said two of his buddies got nabbed." "What happened to them?" Tommy asked. Drew shrugged. "They put their asses in uniforms and shipped them off to 'Nam. They didn't even put them through boot camp. I heard both of them were killed the first week out there. That's what they do to them, man. They figure somebody's gonna die, and it might as well be the draft dodgers." I shuddered. I didn't know anybody in Canada. I'd be a ready target for the Feds. One day, I'd be strolling down the streets of Toronto or Vancouver and they'd come out of nowhere, haul my peaceful butt off to the war zone, and sit back and laugh until I got my ass shot off. No thank you, man. "Hey, I know an Army recruiter," Tommy said. "Maybe I could talk to him and get you in." "Maybe you didn't understand," I growled. "I'm trying to stay out of the Army." Maybe he really was a government agent, I thought. How else would he know a recruiter? My eyes narrowed. Tommy must have noticed, because he explained, "Hey, look man, he's an old high school buddy of mine. What I meant was that if you enlist and get into the right specialty, you could avoid the war altogether. Three years in Germany as a Russian language specialist would be bad, would it?" "I don't speak Russian." "They'll teach you." "Are you sure you're not the recruiter?" I asked. I actually liked Tommy, but he wasn't giving me the kind of advice I was looking for. I wanted somebody to tell me how I could blend in when I made it to Canada. "Hey!" Brad interjected, brightening suddenly. "I've got an idea. You can get married." "Getting married might not help," Tommy said. "I hear they're going to change the law. Being married won't keep you out. You'll have to have a kid, too." "Besides," I added, "I don't want to marry just anybody." "Oh, a romantic, eh?" Drew sneered. I shrugged. "Not really, but the way I understand it, in California, my wife would get half of what I've got if we divorced. That would include a quarter of a million or so in my trust fund." "I didn't know you were rich, man," Drew said with a grin, suddenly interested. "Hey, I'm not," I explained. "The only thing I can touch until I'm twenty-one is college expenses - you know, tuition and living expenses." I didn't feel like telling them that even at twenty-one I couldn't collect all the loot. "But you'll be twenty-one in a couple of months," Brad pointed out. "Sure, and by then, I'll probably be slogging through the jungle," I argued. "I don't think I'll be around to spend any of it." Three hours and countless beers later, the party broke up. Brad and Tommy headed back to the dorms while I staggered back to my place. Drew tagged along since he lived a couple of blocks from me. I was pretty morose for most of the walk. I knew I was going to be drafted. There was no doubt in my mind. I was eligible and as healthy as a horse. My dad if he knew would laugh his ass off. Right now in Hanoi there was probably a bullet being cast that had my name on it. "You're really fucked, aren't you, man?" Drew said as I shuffled toward my door. "Wouldn't you be?" I growled. I was feeling sorry for myself, and the beer hadn't helped. I'd have a roaring headache in the morning and would probably be even more depressed. "Yeah, I would," he admitted with a sympathetic nod. "There's no way I'd let them send me, man." "I'd get out of the country in a heartbeat," I admitted. "But I'm afraid I'd be dragged back here from Canada." "There's a way around it," he whispered slyly. "What?" He dug into his shorts pocket and pulled out a weather-beaten business card. I looked at it as he handed it to me. It was for a place called the Sunshine Club down in North Beach. The black print on the neon pink background announced the card was good for one free admission - no cover, no minimum. "Yeah," I mumbled. "And how is this place going to solve my problem?" "You remember Henry Williams?" I frowned for a second. The name was familiar. Then it dawned on me. "Yeah, I remember him. He was a sophomore last year - a big black guy. He played a little football. Didn't he flunk out?" Drew nodded. "That's right, he did. Mid year." "Sure," I went on. "He lived in the same dorm I did. He was a nice guy - not too smart, though." "Right again," Drew said with a smile. "He wasn't a good enough football player for the Athletic Department to try to save him, so they let him flunk out. He came out of the projects, too, so there was nobody back home to keep him out of the draft." "So what happened to him?" I asked, curious. Obviously, Drew had a point to make, and I wanted to know what it was. "Henry made a little on the side, selling dope - mostly to guys on the team." "I didn't know that," I said, intrigued as I leaned against a tree to hear the rest of the story. "By the time the draft caught up with him, he had saved a little money from dealing. Jack over at the Sunshine Club got him some fake IDs and stuff. Henry's living in Canada now, as free as a bird." "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah." I was skeptical, but I wanted to believe. Given the choice of meekly accepting a possible death in a meaningless war or living the good life - or any life for that matter - in Canada, I would choose life every time. I hate to sound defensive, but it's tough for guys who didn't go through that period to understand what was going through many of our minds. Our parent's generation probably hadn't really wanted to fight in World War II, but it was a popular war. Everybody who could wanted in, or at least it must have seemed that way. Then a few years later after Vietnam, when Nixon ended the draft, it meant that most of the time, the only soldiers who would be at risk would be guys who volunteered. My generation was faced with the prospect of being forced to fight an unpopular war, and I think it made me and other guys feel a little crazy. The funny thing about it though, was that years after the Vietnam War, many of us felt an odd guilt for avoiding it. I didn't feel guilty about it, but I sure did feel stupid, but I'm getting ahead of myself. "So how much does this all cost?" I asked. I tried to sound deliberate, but I think if Drew had said a million dollars I would have signed the check and worried about how far it would bounce later. "It varies," he said noncommittally. "You'll have to talk to Jack." "Okay, maybe," I replied. Maybe if I didn't sound too desperate, they wouldn't overcharge me. "Do it quick," Drew advised as he got ready to walk away. He turned and threw me a mock salute. "The Army needs men." I had fully intended to mull it over for a few days. After all, there was no hurry. I still had a little living expense money left over from my spring draw on the trust. Maybe I'd even try to get a job, although not many companies were anxious to hire a guy they might lose suddenly to the draft. My priorities changed though, when I checked the morning mail. There it was, in its official envelope. Even though I knew what it said, I opened it with trembling hands and read in horror the letter that would change my life: "Greetings from the President of the United States..." The letter went on to inform me that I had been chosen to serve in the Armed Forces of the United States. Its tone was as if I had been selected the winner in the Irish Sweepstakes. Instead I felt like I had been run over by a horse. I had exactly two weeks to report. I knew the drill. The minute I reported, I was theirs. Then after ninety days of basic training, it would be off to - where? Calm down, I told myself. It might not be so bad. There were plenty of guys assigned to bases right in the US. Or I might be sent to Germany. We had lots of troops there. Sure. I could be drinking beer and romancing some sweet young Fraulien. There was nothing that said I would be sent to 'Nam. However, when you're holding your draft notice in your hand, the emotional side of your being tends to take over from the rational. Was I willing to bet my life on this? No, I wasn't, I realized. I picked up the pink business card and stared at it. Maybe it was worth a shot. It couldn't hurt to talk to this Jack, could it? My mind was made up. I headed for the nearest bus stop. I was on my way to North Beach. If the hippie movement of the late sixties had a home office, it would be North Beach. Located in the northern part of San Francisco, it was quickly becoming the place everyone under thirty had to see. Flower children roamed the streets. There was rock music in the air, along with the faint smell of incense mixed with marijuana. Need a joint? Ask anybody. Even the cops just stood back and let it happen, saving their energies for breaking up a fight or restraining some dude on a bad trip. Looking back on that day, the signs of the eventual decline of North Beach were everywhere. The winos and drug addicts roaming the streets of San Francisco, mumbling to themselves, were young then, serving their apprenticeships in a drug-induced fog. The clubs, their seamy exteriors hidden by psychedelic paints and banners, were smoky and dirty inside, smelling of stale beer and worse. The Sunshine Club was a perfect example. It was dark inside, except for the small stage where two go-go girls were dancing to the music of the Stones, their tasseled bodices shimmying to the music in rhythm with their long dark hair. I wondered if they were on something, because they both seemed to be a little wobbly on their white thigh-high go-go boots, and neither of them looked very happy to be there. "You got some ID, kid?" I turned to see a balding man, about forty, a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. "Yeah, sure," I said, reaching for my wallet. What student at Berkley didn't have a phony ID? "Hey look, I'm not here to drink. I'm looking for Jack." His eyes narrowed as he looked up from my ID. "Why do you want to see Jack?" A crucial moment had arrived. If the guy thought I wasn't what I appeared to be, I'd never get to see Jack. In fact, I realized, I might not even be safe. He looked at me closely, then at the ID again. Finally he nodded. "Follow me." He took me down a long, brightly-lit corridor, cluttered with broken tables and chairs. At the end of it, he knocked on a nondescript wooden door and waited respectfully for an answer. "Come in." The voice from within was pleasant, almost friendly. The office was comfortable and - for a change in that building - clean. A man of no more than thirty, long blonde hair tied back in a neat pony tail, stood behind the desk. There was a wide, friendly smile on his face which moved his bushy blonde mustache into a shadow of a smile. His blue eyes twinkled as he put out a long-fingered hand for me to shake. "Vic Solo," he grinned. "Like in Napoleon Solo. By the way, there is no Jack. That's just our little code phrase around here. It lets us know you've been referred." I smiled. The Man from Uncle was one of my favorite shows. "Terry Miller." "Ah!" he exclaimed. "You're the one Drew told me about." "Oh?" I hadn't realized Drew was so intimately involved with this Vic and the Sunshine Club. My natural suspicions returned. "Yes," he went on easily. "I've helped a couple of Drew's friends. Didn't he mention that?" "I guess it slipped his mind." He motioned to a seat, which I took. "Do you want something to drink?" It was an unusually warm day in the city. "A beer would be nice." He leaned over to an intercom. "Julie, bring us two beers. Make it the Heineken." Then he looked back at me, smiling. "Since Drew told me about you, I know you're anxious to avoid military service." It was a nice turn of phrase. It sounded so much better than "dodge the draft." It made it sound like some sort of investment program. I suppose, in a way, it was. I was investing in my life, trying to leverage it into something with a future. Before I could reply, a very attractive black girl in a tight-fitting red dress entered, two frosty mugs of beer on her tray. She gave me a self- conscious smile and wordlessly placed the beers in front of us on Vic's desk. I took a sip of the beer. It was great - not like the cheap, watery American brews I was used to. "Yes," I replied, licking the light foam off my lips as I watched the black girl leave the room. "In fact, there's a complication." "Oh?" "My draft notice came in the mail today." "I see," Vic said professionally, writing a note on the pad in front of him. "I'd like to get to Canada," I went on evenly. "But I'm afraid I wouldn't have much of a life there without some preparation." Vic nodded. "You're right, of course. So many guys just drive for the border. The Canucks don't want them, and so they drift around Canada until the Feds grab them or it gets too cold for them." He shrugged. "Then they usually just end up in the Army no matter what. Did you know the government is just putting them in uniform and shipping them off to the war zone without any training?" He shook his head. "Most of the poor bastards don't last long." Now a lot of time has passed since that conversation took place, and I know now that what Vic was telling me was horse shit. Some guys ended up in jail for draft evasion; others changed their minds and joined the military. Some, I'm sure did go to 'Nam and died in the war. Most did not. How could I have been so stupid and na?ve? Well, you had to be there. We got our news of the war in odd ways. The TV showed the drama of the war itself and the futile efforts of some of our politicians to end it, but we students were all convinced it was some kind of a plot against us. Kent State was two years away, but we didn't need that to convince us that it was us (the students) against them (the government). Our news - or at least the news we all believed - came from hushed conversations in the Student Union or by reading the Berkley Barb, a rag that should have been on the shelf next to the supermarket tabloids. The Barb told of weird government plots straight out of a spy novel. Oh, it's all funny now, but back then, we believed. When Vic talked of draft dodgers hauled off to Vietnam without the benefit of training, all I could do was nod my head in agreement. It had to be true because I expected it to be true. Vic leaned forward. "I can take care of your problem. I can arrange for the draft to get off your back, and I can get you a new identity, too. You'll never have to worry about the draft again." This was sweet music to my ears. I wanted to believe his every word in spite of my vow to be skeptical. He was offering me the opportunity to go on with my life. I didn't have to go into the army. I wouldn't have to fight a war I didn't even believe in. And there would be no price to pay - at least not a price beyond money. That brought me back to reality. My eyes narrowed. "How much?" Vic gave me his patented smile again. "Only three thousand dollars." I did some mental calculations. I still had a little over a thousand in expense money. Maybe I could do this on the installment plan. In two months, I'd have access to $25,000. I could pay the balance then. I explained all of this - including how the trust fund worked - to Vic. I didn't tell him about the fact that I couldn't access the whole thing, but Vic got the idea that there was plenty in the fund. Okay, I was barely more than a kid. I didn't know better than to show my whole hand. If I had understood the stakes, I might have been a little more careful. But again, I'm getting ahead of myself. Vic rubbed his chin. "I don't know, man. Why not just come back in two months when you have the money?" "Because in two months, I'll already be in the army," I explained. "I want to avoid the draft - not desert. The Army is bad enough on draft dodgers, but I hear they're really rough on deserters." Vic smiled grimly. "You've got that right. Did you know they have the right to shoot deserters down on sight?" They didn't, I know now, but I believed it then. I gulped. "Look," Vic drawled carefully, "I know you're a friend of Drew's. He asked me to take care of you. It's against my better judgement, but maybe we can carry you. You can give me a down payment of a thousand - in cash. Then we'll collect the rest in two months when you turn twenty-one. But I'll have to up the price by five hundred." Thirty-five hundred dollars to save my life? Where do I sign up? I thought. I was very proud of myself. I thought I had cut a good deal. If only I had known... "It's a deal." "Okay, I've got a plan, but it will take me a couple of days to work out all the details," Vic explained. "Can you be back here in two days with the down payment?" "Sure," I said brightly. "Good. Now I'll need for you to get me all the information on the trust account so I can make all the arrangements," he said. "We'll meet back here in two days at two in the afternoon. Don't let anyone know what you're doing. The government has eyes and ears everywhere. They'd love nothing better than to shut this operation down." Sure, I gave him what he wanted. Why not? The way things were set up, I had to present myself in person at the bank to the officer handling the trust - a Mr. Hicks. Then I had to give him the password I had created when the trust was activated. There was no way anybody but me could get at the money. Vic explained that he needed the information to set up things so I could access the money from my new home in Canada. A letter would authorize a deduction from my new Canadian bank account to pay the balance of Vic's fee. And of course I had no intention of telling anyone what I was up to. As Vic had said, the government had spies everywhere. I certainly believed that. I left the Sunshine Club with the weight of the world off my shoulders. In two days, I would be free of the army and on my way out of the country. I wanted to tell the world, but Vic had impressed upon me the need for secrecy. "The government would love to find out about us and shut us down," he had explained. So it was a very happy Terry Miller who joined Brad and Tommy for a pizza and beer that night. They were both busy bitching about their summer class loads. Both of them needed to make up a couple of courses to stay on track in school. "So why are you so happy?" Brad finally asked. "Oh," I lied, "I guess it just makes me feel good to know I don't have to put up with school this summer." "You'll be in school all right," Brad warned. "Only your new school will be how to dodge bullets and clean latrines." Both Brad and Tommy laughed at that. "Yuk it up guys," I told them. "I have no plans to go into the army." "Going to Canada?" Tommy asked casually. Maybe too casually? I thought. "Maybe," I allowed. Tommy's eyes narrowed. "Be careful, pal. Canada may not be the answer." I shrugged. I wanted to tell them both what I was up to, but I took Vic's words of caution to heart. What if one of these guys was a government agent? It didn't seem likely. At least I was sure about Brad. I had known him too long - even roomed with him. Of course, the government could always be paying somebody like Brad. Then there was Tommy. I hadn't known him all that long, but he didn't seem like the agent type. Granted, he was a little more mature than most of my other friends, but that didn't make him an agent. But he could be, I thought. I was sorry I hadn't taken the time to know Tommy better. I kind of liked the guy. I wanted to trust him, but I couldn't. As I've said before, being eligible for the draft in the late sixties tended to make one just a little paranoid. I carefully changed the conversation. Nobody brought it up again. I practically counted the hours until I could go back to the Sunshine Club. I didn't have that much to keep me busy. I got the information on the trust account and got the thousand for the down payment and stuffed the ten one-hundred dollar bills into an economy-sized aspirin bottle in my medicine cabinet. Then I spent the next day wandering around some of my old haunts in Berkley. I even managed to get lucky. I met a young freshman coed, too young and fresh on campus to have figured out that just about anybody could have helped her to score some pot. I split what I had with her, and she spent the night with me. Yeah, life was good. I had found a way out of the draft and gotten laid, all in the past twenty-four hours. In a couple of months, I'd have a goodly chunk of my inheritance. I'd wait out the war in Canada, maybe doing a little freelance art. The day I was to meet with Vic, I decided to sleep in. After all, I didn't have to be there until two. Because I had been avoiding my friends, I had not partied the night before and had actually gone to bed early. So I was actually alert when I heard the sound of someone pounding on my door early that morning. "Who is it?" I yelled angrily, disturbed that my sleep had been interrupted. "It's Drew, man." Drew? What was he doing at my door? Sleepily, in nothing but my skivvies, I opened the door. "Drew?" He jumped inside. "Come on, man, it's time to go." "Go? Go where?" "Your appointment has been moved up. I'm supposed to take you there." For the first time, I began to realize Drew was a bigger part of the operation than I had realized. I thought he was just a friend with a contact who could help me. Now I realized he was a part of the whole scheme. Well, why not? I thought. It made sense. I mean, these guys couldn't exactly advertise in the Yellow Pages. Maybe they found guys on campus who were against the war and got their help in recruiting draft dodgers. So what if they made a little money on the side? It was the American way. "Let me get dressed," I said. "Do I need to pack?" "It'll be taken care of, man," he assured me. "Now get going. The Feds have been snooping around lately. They may be on to you." "But I didn't tell anybody," I protested. "Just hurry." It doesn't take long to throw on a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and some sandals. I didn't even bother to shave. All I did was use some pit stop and run a comb through my longish hair. I got the cash out of the bottle and stuffed it in my jeans pocket. I was ready in five minutes. Drew drove silently out of Berkley as I catnapped. He cautiously checked his mirror a couple of times to make sure we weren't being followed before finally turning on to the freeway. Once over the Bay Bridge, I was surprised when he didn't turn off to go to North Beach. "You missed your turn," I told him. He shook his head. "We're not going to the Sunshine Club. The Feds may have made the place. Don't worry - I know where I'm going." It turned out we were going to a small warehouse in South San Francisco. It was a rundown part of town - not exactly the part of town I would want to walk through alone, even in daylight. Most of the residents either worked days at Hunter's Point, working on Naval ships being refitted there, or they worked nights at Hunter's Point, sleeping during the day. The only people out on the streets during the day were usually up to no good. As if by magic, the warehouse door went up and Drew drove on in. Vic was waiting there with two other guys. They were all dressed about like I was. None of us looked out of place in the seamy neighborhood. "Any trouble?" Vic asked Drew. "Not a bit," he replied. Vic visibly relaxed. He slapped me on the back. "Well, kid, you ready to go?" "Sure," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. I would be lying if I didn't admit I was having second thoughts about this whole thing. I was about to give up my old life for something else. If I'd known then just how much of my old life I was really giving up, I would have run out the nearest door and not stopped until I was back in Berkley, no matter how tough the neighborhood outside was. "You got the cash and the pass codes and the letter?" he asked. "Right here," I said, pulling the letter and the pass codes out of my wallet and the money out of my jeans pocket. Vic examined everything. Satisfied, he turned to the guy next to him. "Everything's okay." Suddenly the other guy grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms to my side. The guy Vic had talked to pulled a syringe out of his pocket and started toward me. "Hey!" I yelled. "What the hell is going on here?" Vic and Drew were grinning. It was Drew who answered. "We're just giving you your new identity, man." He emphasized the word "man." Why had everyone laughed when he did? That was the last thought I had, for as he plunged the syringe into my arm, the world almost instantly went black. *** It was like a bad trip on LSD. The world returned in bits and pieces. It felt like I was in the back of a truck or something. I could hear the sound of tires on pavement and feel the slight bumping and swaying associated with freeway travel. I tried to move, but I was tied to some sort of bed. There were two faces looking down at me as I squinted, trying to get my drugged eyes to focus. One looked a little like Vic, and the other one looked a little like the black girl who had been in his office. I could hear them talking, but I couldn't quite make out the words. It sounded as if Vic said something like "He's looking good." Actually, it sounded more like "she" than "he", but it had to be me they were talking about. My drugged mind thought it must have heard wrong. Then the girl said something like "Is he alright?" Yes, she had said "he", so I must have heard wrong. Vic grinned. "Yeah. Everything is going just fine." I shifted uncomfortably, trying to wake up completely, but not able to do so. I felt... funny. It was hard to describe, but my body felt as if it was somehow different. No problem, man, I told myself. Drugs can do funny things to you. Yeah. Isn't that the truth? *** I woke up in the middle of a Disney movie. By that, I mean my eyes focused on an open window. Outside, in the warmth of a bright summer day, birds were merrily chirping from the limbs of a huge oak tree, and there were the distant sounds of farm animals. Horses? Cows? Probably both. I looked around the room, still too weak too move. The room looked like what you would expect down on the farm. There were floral curtains on the white-trimmed windows, a simple pine dresser, a small table and chair with a mirror attached to the back of the table. Where was I? I managed to move my eyes down. I could see my body, or what had to be my body, covered by a thin white sheet. But there was something wrong with what I saw. I wasn't exactly in the habit of looking down at my own chest when I woke up, but being unable to move much, it was as good a target as any. My body looked somehow smaller than I remembered. But in spite of that, the sheet seemed to rise oddly - almost as if my chest was topped off with two... No. It couldn't be possible. I couldn't have... I mean I shouldn't have... I tried to scream, but all that came out of my mouth was a weak moan, and even that didn't sound right. It was much higher than it should have been. I wasn't exactly a baritone, but since when was I a soprano? The door opened suddenly, and I was greeted with Vic's smiling face. "Well, welcome back to the land of the living, Terry." "Wha... wha...?" "What have we done to you?" he finished for me. "I think that should be pretty obvious - even to you. Now just relax and don't try to move. I'll explain what we've done when you're up and around. Oh, and when you can get up, don't bother trying to leave the room. The door and window are alarmed. Besides, it would be a nasty drop to the ground. You should start to regain control of your body in another hour or so. 'Til then, Terry." As he shut the door, I could hear him chuckle. The bastard! Yes, I knew what they had done to me - not how but what. I was now a girl. I knew it was possible. There was that Christine Jorgenson case back in the fifties, and I knew that a few places in the US were doing it now, or so I had heard. Had they operated on me? It was funny, but I remembered having my tonsils taken out when I was a little boy. My throat felt terrible when I woke up. But I didn't feel terrible now - at least not physically. If I had just been through a major sex change operation, I should have felt like shit. Instead I actually felt pretty good. There were new sensations, but none of them were physically unpleasant - with one exception. That exception was the feeling between my legs. My legs were closed, yet I felt nothing in between them. By all rights, I should have been squishing my prick and balls, but I wasn't. There was nothing there - or at least nothing on the outside. I knew what that meant, and felt a sudden frustrating sense of loss. You take your equipment for granted, never really noticing it until you get hit there or it gets hard. But when it's gone, you know. Believe me, you know. I've heard that when you lose an arm or a leg, there is this sensation that it is somehow still there. Well, when you lose your dick, it just ain't so. Instead I could sense rather than feel an opening where it should have been. I looked again at the two mounds on my chest. I couldn't make out their exact shape through the sheet, but they looked to be pretty large. If they were large while I was lying on my back, I hated to think what they would be like when I stood up. I wondered what I looked like. Now there I was, in a drugged stupor, unable to make more than small movements, worrying about how I looked. Was that a feminine response? That didn't seem reasonable. If they had operated on me, I was still really male - deep down at least. My chromosomes would still be XY. Only the outer shape would have changed. But I had a sudden sense that they hadn't operated on me. Feminine intuition? Yeah, sure. I began to realize as I lay there unable to move much that wondering what I looked like wasn't a feminine reaction - it was a human reaction. As a guy, I wasn't bad looking. I had my share of girls, and I had lost my virginity when I was fifteen. I guess I just wanted to know if I wasn't bad looking as a girl. I pitied homely girls. The world wasn't exactly kind to them. After what seemed like an eternity, I began to get control over my body once more. It was a gradual process, starting in my extremities. I could feel my fingers and toes moving. What did they look like? Did I have delicate little flower petal toes and slim, fingers? I wouldn't if I had been the victim of surgery, but I was still convinced that the answers didn't lie on the operating table. Next I was able to move a little from side to side. I experienced for the first time the motion of breasts on my chest, swinging with authority with each shift of my body. How would I even be able to walk with those huge things sticking out? Then I could feel the shift of my hips and ass. It was as if I had a pillow under my butt. Even though I couldn't feel my waist, I was convinced that it was now much slimmer - a fitting compliment to my new breasts and hips. As I began to move my head, I noticed that my hair seemed longer. Long hair was fashionable for guys in the late sixties, and mine was fairly long, but not that long. Again, I realized, no operation would have changed the length of my hair. What had happened to me? Magic? No, I really didn't believe in magic, but what else would explain what had happened to me? The door opened suddenly. It was the black girl from Vic's office. What had he called her? Oh, yeah, Julie. "Okay, honey," she said in a soft voice, as dusky as her skin, "it's time for you to get up and start to learn to be a girl." "Don' wan' to..." I managed to mumble. She shook her head in sad resignation. "It doesn't matter what you want anymore, honey," she said, barely above a whisper. "The sooner you figure that out, the better your new life is gonna be. You take it from me. You just do what Julie tells you and it won't be too bad." I had always been a trusting soul. That was what had gotten me into the fix I was in. Now somebody else was asking me to trust them. I didn't know this girl, but something deep inside told me she was the only one in this entire mess that I could... trust? No, that's the wrong word. She was the only one who I could depend upon - yes, depend was the word - to get me through this ordeal. "Now come on," she urged, gently wrapping her arm around my back. "Let's get you out of bed and on your feet. You've got a lot to learn, and these guys aren't going to give you a lot of time to learn it." "Learn?" I managed, holding on to her for support. "Yeah, honey, I already told you. You have to learn to be a girl - and don't tell me you don't want to. We've already been down that road." As much as I didn't want to learn, I knew I would probably have to. Vic and his gang hadn't done this to me for the fun of it. They had something in mind, but my stupefied mind was too scrambled to figure out what it was. I would just have to play along and do what I was told until I got my full mental faculties back. But what if I couldn't? I thought as I struggled to my feet. What if the same power that had changed my body had changed my mind. Hey, I was no genius, but I had always been a bright if na?ve and unmotivated guy. What if they had given me the mental abilities of a moronic little sexpot, driven only by my sexual desires? Funny, I didn't feel any sexual desires. And I didn't feel any more stupid than I had been when I had blundered into this little trap. I would just have to bide my time, I realized. I was glad for Julie's help in walking. Even if I hadn't been so groggy, I think I would have had a difficult time walking with my new center of gravity. As a man, my weight had seemed to be evenly distributed throughout my torso. Now though, the strange swinging of my breasts and my widened hips seemed to almost throw me out in an obtuse direction. "Don't worry, honey," Julie urged, sensing my problem, "you'll get used to it soon enough." I didn't want to get used to it, I thought. She walked me slowly over to a full-length mirror which had been out of my line of sight before. So for the first time, leaning against Julie for much-needed support, I saw what they had done to me. I wore nothing on my new body, so the entire tableau was laid out before me. There could be no denying what I was now. Any trace of my male existence had been wiped clean. Oh, I still looked a little like I had looked before. I could have been some long-lost twin sister. My hair could still be called chestnut, only it tended to lean more to the red shades than the brown. In fact, auburn would be a better description of it now. Also, it seemed to have more body and luster than I remembered, and it was noticeably longer, hanging down to my shoulders. My skin was still fair and my eyes were still blue. Yes, I was still a Miller, but not the one I had been before this process had begun. I now had a face that could be called "cute." I don't know if I would have used the word "pretty", but it was close. My blue eyes seemed slightly larger, yet softer, due to the shape of my eyelids. My nose was now curved and pert, instead of the larger, straighter one I had had before. My lips were fuller, and I couldn't help but wonder perversely what they would look like accented by lipstick. As I slowly gazed down my body, I saw my neck was now slimmer, supported by narrower shoulders. My breasts were large, but not huge, appearing to be about the size of my mother's breasts. And why not? I was the daughter she had never had - until now. My waist was feminine, but not exaggerated, flaring into wide hips. A bit too wide? No, but I knew what some would call them: child-bearing hips. It caused me to shudder. My arms and legs were hairless and slender - actually graceful. I looked at my hands. They seemed almost tiny now, with long manicured nails. The legs were probably my best asset, I thought as dispassionately as I could. They were the sort of legs that men would notice. Encased in nylon and supported on high heels, they would be one of the first things any guy would be impressed with. No wonder women felt they were being watched all the time. From the front, they would notice my well-formed breasts, and from the rear, they would appreciate my we-formed ass and legs. No matter what the angle, I would be noticed. I didn't want this, I thought, as I felt moisture forming at the corners of my eyes. I didn't want this at all. "Oh, don't cry, honey," Julie said with sympathy as I sat back down on the bed. "It's not that bad, and you're really very pretty. If you do what I tell you, it won't be bad at all. Just look at me." Y...you?" I stammered, sniffing. She nodded in a most sisterly fashion. "Sure. You remember a guy named Henry Williams?" "Yeah," I said slowly. "He was a football player at school. Drew mentioned him just the other day." She snorted. "Drew - that little prick. I'd like to stick him with the same needle they got me with. See how he'd like prancing around in high heels. Ah, what the hell. The little shit probably wears 'em anyway." "So?" I prompted. "Well," she explained, "I'm Henry Williams. Or at least I was." They say misery loves company. It's true. As I realized that Julie had been a guy, too, it made me feel a little better. "So I'm not alone?" I asked slowly. Even after what had happened to me, it seemed unbelievable that this slim, attractive black goddess could have ever been a man. "No, you're certainly not alone," she told me. "I've been this way for a few months now, and I've seen a couple of dozen guys changed." "But why?" I asked plaintively. "What possible reason do they have to do this to me... us? Aren't there already enough girls in the world?" "Sure," she agreed, sitting down beside me on the bed. "But think about it. If you kidnap a girl and sell her, somebody might come looking. If you kidnap a guy who was trying to run away to begin with and change him into a girl, who's to know? As far as everybody knows, you're up in Canada right now dodging the draft." "But how?" I was becoming more terrified by the second. Kidnapped? Sold? This was part of a white slavery ring. I knew they existed, but I never thought I would have to worry about one. How much would I be worth? I wondered perversely. I shuddered at the idea. She sighed. "They've got a drug. I don't know where they got it. Maybe they developed it or maybe they stole it. In any case, it works. What happens is that it turns you into a female version of yourself. Actually, I think it goes a little further than that, because I've got two sisters who don't look nearly as good as I do. So it must be designed to turn you into the best possible female version of yourself." "So this is that I would look like if I had been born female?" I asked, gesturing at my new body. She nodded. "Pretty much, if you were lucky. Now let me tell you the rest. They'll be expecting me to be teaching you how to be a girl. You know, how to use makeup and do your hair. Then they'll turn you over to Penny for finishing. So just be quiet for now and ask the questions later." So I listened. It wasn't a comforting story. Vic and his gang ran a typical corner candy store crime operation. With the Sunshine Club as a base of operations, they were into a little drugs and a little prostitution - nothing big enough to draw the attention of any of the large criminal operations in the Bay Area, but enough to be pretty profitable. Then out of nowhere, it seemed, they had come up with this miracle drug that had changed my sex. The rumor was they stole it from someone. I was apparently a typical victim. It was somehow good to know that I had challengers for the title of Stupidest and Most Na?ve Guy in the Bay Area. They would find someone like me who wanted to avoid the draft. They wouldn't choose just anyone; they only wanted guys who had no other option but had the money to finance their flight and then some. Then they would take their up-front money, change them into girls, sell them, and rake in whatever other money their poor suckers had stashed. "I still had almost fifteen thousand in an account," Julie told me. "I made it supplying the team with drugs." She had the decency to look a little embarrassed her former part-time career as a drug merchant. "They took me for three grand up front and then got the rest out of my account after they changed me." "Ow!" I yelled. She had started working on my hair as I sat at the little makeup table. When she thought about losing the money, she had tugged a little hard on it. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." "So how come you weren't... sold?" I asked with a little shudder. "Vic took a liking to me," she said simply. "He has a thing for black girls. You know the old saying: Once you try black, you'll never go back." In the mirror, I could see her grin. I actually had to smile at that myself. "So instead of selling me off, he decided to keep me for himself. Besides, black girls don't sell for as much as white ones. There are sources for black girls in other parts of the world. Most of Vic's customers are third world types who really get off at the idea of having some nice little middle class white American chick to bang. Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to upset you." "I'm not upset," I replied, my voice quaking, but Julie knew I was very, very upset. There was a real irony here. I had gone to Vic because I wanted to avoid slogging around in some Asian jungle and risk getting my balls shot off. Now here I was, in great risk of going someplace like Asia anyway, only with no balls left to shoot off. "Look, I'll tell you a secret," Julie said softly. "Deep down, Vic is sort of a soft touch. I hear you've got a big trust fund, so he'll make plenty of money off you even without selling you. If you act real nice and don't fight him, he'll probably hold you back to sell to somebody pretty decent. There's some out there, I guess - guys who take care of their women. Why, if you play your cards right, in a couple of months, you may be shopping for new dresses in Paris with your own American Express card. It's been known to happen." That sounded okay in an odd way, but Vic wasn't going to be very happy when he found out that most of my trust fund wouldn't be available until I was twenty-five - almost four years away. Sure, he could get his hands on the $25,000 I was to get at twenty-one, but no more. I'd be lucky if I didn't end up serving girl to some little tinpot strongman in some unpronounceable country I had never even heard of. I was going to have to figure out some way to get away, or my little feminine goose was going to be cooked. But how long did I have? When this whole mess started, I was two months away from my twenty-first birthday. That was when the shit would hit the fan - when they found out they couldn't get all my money. I had apparently been out for a few days, so I had maybe six or seven weeks to go. I doubted if I would be sold before then. They needed me, just in case something went wrong at the bank. But once they had my money - or at least, the money they could lay their hands on - I'd be sold in a heartbeat. "Now," Julie said with feigned brightness, "let's get you dressed. You must be cold." Actually I was, but I still hadn't asked for any clothing. I knew the nature of the clothes they would have given me, and I wasn't wrong. Julie handed me a pair of pink panties, silken to the touch, and supported my still-weak body as I put them on. A bra followed, matching the panties in color and cut to accentuate my breasts. Part of me was happy to have my sex covered by these items, but another part of me realized that I would probably have to wear similar garments for the rest of my life. Or would I? Was there a way back to manhood. I casually asked the question, only to have that tiny thread of hope cut with her reply. "No, I understand it's one way only," she told me. "Apparently, it latches on to the Y chromosome and makes it mirror the X chromosome. Then it sets off a chain of events in the body that causes the change. It's pretty rough on the body. You looked like a mess while you were changing. That's why you sleep through most of the process." "So how long was I out?" I asked as casually as I could as she slipped a neon pink minidress over my head. "About ten days," she told me. "It's an amazing process. Your body gets all the energy it needs from elements of your male body. Did you know you're about five inches shorter than you used to be?" I shook my head, feeling the auburn tresses wafting along my neck. I hadn't known for sure, but I had suspected. That would make me about five-five or five-six. At least I wasn't some little dainty five foot tall flower. Julie tugged at the dress to make sure it fit right. It rode high on my new thighs and tight all over. The sleeves were fairly long, coming almost to my slender wrists, but the neckline plunged to nearly the top of my nipples. There was no denying that I was all girl. "Hike your skirt and sit on the bed," she said. "I forgot your pantyhose." She then instructed me on how to slide the hose up my legs. I at last knew how a sausage must feel inside its casing. They seemed to retain heat as well, making my crotch feel warmer than it should. Or was it something else that made my new sexual equipment feel so warm? I hoped not. It had to be the pantyhose. I prayed it was just the pantyhose. Go-go boots were next. They were pink and shiny and matched in hue the dress I wore. They had a heel of perhaps two inches, and I wobbled as I tried to stand in them. I wondered if the dancers I had seen at the Sunshine Club were transformees as well. They had also seemed a little unsure in their go-go boots. Maybe I was the next feature attraction at the Sunshine Club. I'd rather die first, I thought grimly to myself. "Now the finishing touches," Julie muttered. "Hold still." Before I could realize what was happening, I felt a sharp pinch on my right earlobe. "Ow! What the hell are you doing?" "Ladies shouldn't swear," she said lightly. "I'm piercing your ears. Now hold still or it'll hurt worse." There was a pinch on my left ear as well. Moments later, I had been given the full treatment. I had earrings, but only small studs instead of the more popular hoops of the times. Nothing bigger until my lobes had a little chance to heal, Julie explained. I wore a thin gold chain necklace. At its center was a round peace symbol, dangling down over my full breasts. Fitting for a draft dodger, I supposed. Cosmetics of the sixties were usually quite pronounced, and Julie had done a masterful job. My lipstick and long, shaped fingernails matched my dress, and my eyelids had taken on a smoky look, with long lashes which fluttered as I watched the entire picture with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Not too bad, Terry," Julie commented critically. "I've seen better, but you're up there with the best. I suppose it should be Teri with an 'i' now instead of T-e-r-r-y." "I suppose so," I admitted. At least I had a name which didn't sound too bad on a girl. I could see why they had changed Henry to Julie. Henrietta didn't seem like much of a name to be stuck with. "So do I get a new ID or something now?" I asked. She shook her head ruefully. "I wish. No, girls like you and me only get as much identity as our owners want. Vic didn't give me anything - not even a last name. I'm just 'Julie.' I've got no driver's license, no Social Security card - nothing. You see, that's why I do what he tells me. Without Vic, I'm nobody, and bad things happen to people like that." I could see her point. What better way to keep a woman in virtual slavery than to make sure she lacked proper identification? If I were to escape and go to the police, they would never believe that I was Terry Miller - a man. Instead, I would be pegged as one of the thousands of runaway girls who flocked to California to 'find themselves' only to be dragged into the drug culture and a life on the streets. They would just figure I had burned my brain out on one of dozens of available drugs. I'd end up in a psychiatric hospital someplace until I was "evaluated." Then I'd be thrust back out on the street to live my life as best I could. That would leave me with a promising future of blowing guys for lunch money. These dark thought started the tears again. "Don't cry, honey," Julie said solicitously. "You're gonna ruin that makeup. You need to look nice when they come tonight." "When who comes?" I asked. Was I to be sold already? "Oh, just Vic," she said with a dismissive waive of her hand. "He likes to check out all the new girls." "Check out?" I repeated warily. I had terrible visions of what that innocent phrase might entail. Julie laughed. "Oh, nothing like that, Teri. You're a virgin and you'll stay one until you're sold. Virgins are worth extra money - particularly ones like you. They'll make up some story that you were raised in a conservative Midwestern family and never had a serious relationship. They'll tell you what the story is, and you'll follow it." "What happens if I don't?" I asked a little defiantly. I felt a little more confident knowing I wasn't going to have to put out for Vic - or anybody else for that matter. At least not until I was sold. "Then honey," she said ominously, "you're in for big trouble. Remember when I told you Vic was into prostitution before he got the drug?" I nodded. "Well, he still is," she explained. "One misstep and you'll be out on the street, your head full of drugs, turning tricks for the man." She opened the door, but before closing it added, "Give it a chance, Teri. I kinda like you, and I'd hate to see you out on the street like that." The door shut behind her. So I was alone with my thoughts. Julie had promised I would only have to remain dressed like I was until Vic had seen me. Then she had promised to try to bring me more casual clothes. She had impressed upon me the need to keep Vic happy, but I doubted if I would be able to do so long term. Oh sure, I could play the happy little nymphet, learning how to be the best girl I could be, but in the long run, Vic would be displeased. In six weeks, when he or one of his men went to the bank to get my money and found out that most of it would be out of reach for another four years. There would be hell to pay. I'd probably end up in one of Vic's brothels, blowing guys for twenty bucks each. Damn! That thought had actually made me... horny? Well, maybe not horny, but I could feel a tingle between my legs and at each of my nipples. Did it mean I was turning into a qu... No, I guess I couldn't be considered queer if I was attracted to men now. Mentally though, I wasn't attracted to men at all, but my body didn't care about that. It was like the feeling you get when your stomach says no, I'm full, but your mouth says gee, that would taste good. Back to business, though. I guessed I really didn't have much of a choice. If I fought what had happened to me, I would take crap from the first of it. Come to think of it, I would still be a virgin if I gave blow jobs. That would probably be my fate if I displeased Vic and his men - that or worse. There was also anal penetration. I shuddered. Until that day, I had never realized how many ways there were to debase a girl. I had never had to worry about it before. No, my only chance of getting out of this whole mess with a remaining shred of dignity was to try to be the best little girl I could be. I'd be cheerful, submissive, feminine, and all the other things I detested. Then maybe - just maybe - they'd let down their guard long enough for me to get away. Of course, once I got away, what could I do? I would be a young, pretty woman with no funds and no identity. The authorities would be no help. Or would they? The police might not help, but how about the military? No, I told myself sadly, the military would be no help either. If I told them who I was, they would just assume that I was some love-struck girl trying to help her boyfriend - the real Terry Miller - get out of the draft. I was suddenly reminded of the old song, made popular by the Chad Mitchell Trio lately, called the Draft Dodger Rag. It started out "Sarge, I'm only eighteen, I've got a ruptured spleen, and I always carry a purse." Well, I was a little over eighteen, and my spleen was fine, but it looked like I would have to spend the rest of my life carrying a purse. My thoughts were interrupted by the click of the door lock. I stood up guiltily from the bed where I had been sitting, thinking, almost as if I was frightened that whoever was coming had been reading my thoughts. It probably worked to my advantage though, for my eyes were undoubtedly wide and beautiful and my painted lips were open in a wide, feminine "oh." It was Vic, followed closely by a leering Drew. Vic actually gave me a friendly smile when he saw me. "Teri," he said, sounding like the Vic I had first met, "you look absolutely fantastic. Doesn't she look fantastic, Drew?" "You're a good looking babe, Teri," Drew said with a grin that spoke volumes about what he would like to do to me. Vic waived his hand. "Turn around, slowly... slowly." "Nice ass," Drew commented. I could feel my face redden as I turned. I was glad my back was to him to the son of a bitch couldn't see how he had embarrassed me. And I had thought the asshole was my friend! When I had turned back to face them, Vic said, "I like the outfit. Maybe we could use you at the club for awhile. Of course, you'd have to promise to behave yourself.