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Looking For Hope By Dawn DeWinter CHAPTER 1 - DOWN THE MANHOLE Hope is gone. There is no sign of hope. Hope is nowhere to be found. She hasn't replied to an e-mail since the eleventh. Why doesn't she answer? She can't be on vacation. If she were, she'd have told us all. She's always kept in touch before. Why not now? It's not like Hope to have gone missing. Where is Hope? Does anyone know where she lives? Where she works? Does she live or work in New York City? Tell me if you know: Where has Hope gone? Tell us that Hope still lives. These e-mails had been pouring in from Dawn's friends, readers, and acquaintances. "Do you know what happened to Hope?" they all had asked. Some of the people had never before written her, but they were writing to anyone who might know the fate of Hope, even someone as unlikely as Dawn. Others who wrote had once been Dawn's friends, but had gone silent because Dawn had abused their trust by retelling their life stories as thinly veiled "fiction." Yet, they were now willing to forgive Dawn if only she could tell them where Hope had gone. "Do you know where she is?" pleaded Demi, an Iowa teenager in her first e-mail to Dawn in a year. "Has Hope been writing you recently?" queried Josie and Denise, a Boston couple. From New York came a fax: "My crystal ball has gone black. You've got to tell me where Hope has gone. Everyone I know is asking." Dawn herself had been puzzled by Hope's absence from her inbox. Hope had been Dawn's most faithful correspondent. No matter how empty was her mailbox; there had always been a word of encouragement from Hope. Yet when Hope stopped writing, Dawn had been more miffed than alarmed. She assumed that Hope had tired of her, that Hope had become the muse of another, younger, more deserving author. "Hope promised me she'd never abandon me, no matter what I did, no matter what I wrote. Yet, she's dropped off my radar screen. That bitch! She's been as faithless as my fifty-two boyfriends have. Why does everyone have to leave me?" whined Dawn. "I'm really quite lovable - deep down, when you really get to know me." Drowning in self-pity, Dawn had become completely self- absorbed. Even more so than usually so. She hadn't bought a newspaper in weeks. She would also have tuned out the television news, had she still owned a TV set. However, she'd "hocked it" to pay for her lifeline - her Internet service to the Web. For three weeks she had been spending most of her waking hours on-line burying her head in TG science fiction so that she could avoid thinking about the fact that even Hope had dropped out of her life. But now as the e-mails clogged her inbox, Dawn realized that she'd been wrong to feel slighted. "Everyone else has lost track of Hope," she now understood. "It's up to me to find her. That's what I'm going to do with my spare time." (Which accounted for most of her time off-line, inasmuch as Dawn was an unemployed writer with a writing block.) How could Dawn expect to find Hope when no one else could? Well, Dawn might have said if you caught her in a boastful mood (that is, on most days) that she was smarter than her friends were. After all, she'd almost applied to become a member of Mensa, her second-grade teacher once had said she'd never met a worse "know-it-all" than Dawn. Mr. Peepers, Dawn's seventh-grade drama teacher, had even told her that he'd never met a boy who so quickly understood how he was expected to act after being invited home for an audition. Yes, Dawn was a male, but a really smart one - smart enough to know he'd rather live his life as a woman. He expected one day to have sexual reassignment surgery, but he hadn't yet found the money even for hormones or implants. Thus, his body was as biologically male as the day he was born. You wouldn't know it, however, when you saw "her" dressed, for Dawn wrapped herself in padding like a female football player getting ready for the big game. She went about with enormous breasts that she'd bought from a mail-order house in Zimbabwe. They didn't match Dawn's coloring, nor did they have a nipple, and they were rather shapeless. But were they ever big! "Don't you think I look like Jayne Mansfield," Dawn would ask anyone old enough to remember (as she did) the buxom actress of the 1950s. She'd then show them her profile, so they'd get the hint. People never seemed to know how to respond. Most started coughing, which wasn't surprising, given the air quality in Newark, New Jersey, Dawn's hometown. But a handful would say, "Come on now, Dawn, you're smarter than Jayne Mansfield. She was the original dumb blond. The Blonde Bombshell!" So even, when Dawn was fishing for compliments about her bosom, people would remind her that she was valued most for her brains. Understandably, in this moment of crisis, Dawn knew that she (and she alone) had the smarts to find Hope. Wherever Hope had gone, Dawn would find her. However, where to start the search? "In my e-mail archive," thought Dawn. "I've kept every e-mail Hope had ever sent to me. There's got to be at least sixty of them. Somewhere in one of her letters there's bound to be a clue to her whereabouts." So, Dawn printed out all sixty-two e-mails she'd received from Hope, her best friend on the Internet. Hope was everything Dawn wanted to be. She was, for example, an insightful critic of the arts, who recognized the genius of Dawn's writing. So few people did. Dawn often felt besieged by Philistines. Even the teenage cheats for whom she wrote term papers mocked her abilities. Nevertheless, Hope never did. When Dawn was feeling really down - when, for example, the students at the middle school refused to pay her because their English themes had failed to receive a passing grade - Hope would reassure her: "It is not you who have failed, Dawn, it's those small-minded teachers. They don't understand that great writers go by their own rules of grammar. Anyway, what's so wrong with a triple negative? As for capital letters, the great poet E. E. Cummings said they weren't necessary at the beginning of sentences. Girl, you're a genius!" Hope's appreciation of Dawn as an author was sufficient by itself to make her Dawn's best friend on the Internet. However, Hope was much more to Dawn than merely an admiring critic. She was also Dawn's Ideal. She was the person Dawn wanted to be. She, unlike Dawn, had started her hormone therapy. Hope actually had small breasts, but (and this weakness endeared her to Dawn) she hadn't let anyone actually see them. Hope was springing forth in the privacy of her room, but she went out in public with a super tight sports bra that, thanks to two outer layers of cotton, hid her budding femininity. Hope was, even so, always one step ahead of Dawn on the journey to revelation; and so she had earned Dawn's infinite respect. They were marching to the same drummer, but Hope was in the vanguard. Dawn was following her slowly but steadily to a feminine future - one that Dawn's whole being ached for, yet she still feared to embrace. But with Hope's help, Dawn would one day be the undeniable mistress of prose - the most celebrated female author in the world. Was that likely to happen? No, but as long as there was Hope, Dawn could dream. And dream she did. Understandably, Dawn had endeavored to find out as much about her friend as possible. She had pestered Hope with questions, but rarely got a straight answer, for Hope was anxious to keep her real-life identity secret. True, she did admit that most of the world called her "Allan" and that she lived in the United States. But in which city? In which state? Hope never said, and her e-mails came at such odd hours that it was impossible to figure out whether she lived in the East or West. Did Hope have a job? Was she a college student? She wouldn't say; nor would she discuss her age, except to admit that she was younger than Dawn. This admission didn't tell Dawn very much since Hope knew that Dawn's first love (that at age five) had been a Korean War sailor. Dawn said she'd merely lusted from afar, but the memory of his buttocks had thereafter made anything and everything Korean erotic. In fact, M.A.S.H. had once been her favorite television show. She'd curl up under a sheet and feverishly masturbate while she watched the U.S. Army medics stretch out on their bunks in Korea. She saw herself as Klinger, the cross-dressing corporal, fantasizing seducing the unit's chaplain, commanding officer, and (blush) the commander's horse. That horse was quite a stallion. Enough about that horse! Television fantasies weren't going to bring Dawn any closer to finding Hope. Dawn knew that Hope was younger than fifty. However, how much younger? Dawn had no idea at all, for Hope never talked about her past. She was completely future-oriented. Nor had Hope said much about her looks except to admit, sheepishly, that most people found her appealing to the eye. Her race, ethnicity or hair color she would not discuss. "Whether I am black, brown, white or yellow doesn't matter," Hope would say. "We love each other as friends. Isn't that enough to know?" It had been enough, until now. Nevertheless, Dawn wished she'd had learned much more about Hope. It was disconcerting not to know whether she was young or told, African or Indian, rich or poor. All Dawn knew for certain was that Hope was transgendered - just like Dawn, but even more so. Hope also had an eastward looking window, for several of her letters thrilled to the view of the rising sun over the "mighty river" nearby. "Dawn is my favorite time of day," Hope would say, "because the new day stretches in front of us - a day in which so much good can be done and so many dreams fulfilled. That's one reason why I love you so much, Dawn. You have such a hopeful name." As Dawn read and re-read Hope's letters, her mind became fatigued. "I've got to lie down for a moment," she thought. "Maybe if I listen to some beautiful music, I'll get inspired." So she went to her collection of New Age tapes, records and CD's to find the right selection. Briefly, she thought of putting on her very first purchase - "Dawn at New Hope," a recording of bird songs at daybreak in the touristy Pennsylvania town - but then decided to listen to her most recent acquisition. It was her first disk of German music. She'd never liked German music, for she'd found the driving beat of polka music unsettling, even unnerving. However, this was classical German music, the two buskers had explained. They had been playing for dimes and quarters on the boardwalk at Asbury Park - a pan flutist and an accordionist. Perhaps it was their bare chests on a chilly September day or perhaps it was their inspired playing, whichever it was, Dawn had made an impulse purchase of their homemade CD disk. Now she settled back to listen to their remarkable rendition of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. As she reclined on her red vinyl couch, a pink velvet cushion from the horse show at the Iowa State Fair cradling her head, she fantasized about blowing on a shepherd's flute. She came in unison to the symphony's climactic thunderstorm (memorably recreated by someone banging on an accordion). "Drat," Dawn moaned. "I've soiled my panties." Indeed there was now a small yellow spot on her "Winnie the Pooh" cotton panties. Fortunately, she had pulled down her white tights, pulling up her white lace petticoats and blue satin dress before she'd started playing with herself. They remained as pristine as her white pinafore. Actually, there wasn't much risk of Dawn's soiling either her petticoats or dress because they were remarkably short. All of Dawn's dresses had been mini-length since the 1960s. Indeed, half of her skirts dated from the 1960s. (She was proud that she could still - with the help of a corset - fit into them.) However, this particular dress was almost spotless for it was part of her newest ensemble. She'd just spent a year's savings to buy it from a fetish wear company in London. She'd been wearing the new outfit every day since it had arrived at the post office two weeks ago. That is to say, she'd been wearing it in her bachelor apartment, but she wasn't yet ready to walk the streets of Newark dressed as Alice in Wonderland in a miniskirt. Ah, but she did so love her outfit; from her shoulder- length blond wig and sequined black velvet hairband down to her black, patent leather Mary Jane shoes. If she only dared, it would be the only thing she'd be wearing from now on, as she, Dawn, looked for her Lewis Carroll to seduce. As her mind drifted to the mellow sounds of the Pan flute, Dawn suddenly remembered a key clue to Hope's whereabouts. It was a rare local reference in one of Hope's e-mails, it pointed Dawn in the direction of Pennsylvania. On the other hand, more precisely, to a station in Pennsylvania. As Dawn lay on her couch cogitating, she had a Eureka moment. It went something like this: "Eureka! I know where Hope is to be found. I know why Allan called himself Hope rather than something more alliterative or rhyming like Alicia, Lana or Susan. He took his name from his own hometown. That's it! That's the ticket. My friend lives in New Hope, Pennsylvania. It all fits!" "Fits? In what way?" dull wits might ask. Well, New Hope does look east across the mighty Delaware River; and the notion that Alan might have called himself after his hometown wasn't entirely far-fetched. New Hope was indeed in Pennsylvania. However, why was Dawn so convinced that Hope had to be there? Well, if truth be told, Dawn didn't have enough money to find Hope if she lived more than sixty miles away. Since Dawn couldn't believe that she was beyond Hope's recovery, she had to believe that her friend either lived, like Dawn, in New Jersey or, at worst, in a town just across the state line. New Hope fit the bill, especially as Dawn had been anxious to visit it for twenty- five years, ever since she'd bought "Dawn at New Hope" finding her femme name and identity. So excited was Dawn at figuring out Hope's whereabouts (Had any detective ever been cleverer?) that she rushed about the room looking for her purse. Finding it at last under a heap of dirty clothes by the side of her bed, Dawn hurriedly thrust her money into it, and then, quite forgetting how she was dressed, ran out of the apartment, into the street. "I must catch the last bus to New Hope, I really must. I must not be late. I must not be late." She was flagging, almost out of breath, when a jogger reinvigorated her. He flashed by her in a fluffy white cotton jogging suit and pale pink sneakers. "Gosh," thought Dawn, "he looks just like a rabbit. With that hood, he looks like he's got two pointy ears. But he definitely doesn't have a rabbit's body!" It was his body that really caught her attention. The jogger was the shapeliest male she'd seen in twenty-four hours; so naturally, she chased after him. He too seemed to be heading for the bus terminal, so Dawn ran after him so enthusiastically that she even got close enough to see him look at his chronometer saying, "I'm not making good time. I'm late, I'm late for the timing point." As Dawn stared at the jogger's furry wrist, she lost track of his feet - and hers. Suddenly he leapt over an open manhole. "Wow, what a butt!" Dawn exclaimed out loud as she watched him soar. She was just about to grab her jogger from behind when she fell down the manhole. Down, down, down she went. Frantically she grabbed at the sides of the hole - to no avail. She began cursing as she realized she'd broken two nails. Suddenly, the manhole narrowed as its wall became rough and uneven, apparently because of ongoing repairs. Her descent abruptly ended. Her gigantic bosom had broken her fall. "My god, my breasts have saved my life," thought Dawn, just before she passed out from the stench of the sewer. CHAPTER 2 - TEARS OF THE FOOL It pissed rain all night. Dawn would have drowned had her mouth remained as wide open as it had been during her pursuit of the jogger. Mercifully her jaws clamped shut as she lost consciousness. It was an automatic reflex, for Dawn wasn't proud of her teeth, which were stained coffee brown from her addiction to caffeine. While the rainwater poured into the manhole, where it mixed with oil and grease from the street, Dawn became more slippery than usual. Inch by inch, she slid down the hole. Her descent was uneven, for Dawn was lopsided. Gradually one of her breast forms fell to her navel, while the other rose to her head. At long last, just as the first glimmer of dawn's early light lit up her manhole, her body tore itself loose from its captor and splashed noisily into two feet of sewage. Her left breast form, freed by the final plunge, arced lazily into the air before landing kerplunk...on top of Dawn's ravishingly blond wig. Dawn cried and cried. She couldn't remember when she'd felt so low - or been so low. Where had her search for Hope brought her? To the sewers of Newark! Not the sewers of Paris or Rome - they reeked of history and romance. But the sewers of Newark - they just reeked. "I had such good intentions," Dawn bawled, "and where have they brought me? To a cesspool! Boo hoo, boo hoo." Yes, she actually said. "boo hoo, boo hoo." Indeed, she yelled it four two hours in the hope that someone would hear her. But no one did. It was, after all, early Sunday morning and few people were moving about. In fact, there never were many pedestrians in Dawn's neighborhood, for most of it had been slotted for demolition and renewal. Dawn should have quit her apartment months ago, but she liked the peace and quiet of living in an empty building. It was the perfect place for a writer to work her wizardry, especially as her landlord had forgotten to turn off the electricity. Heat hadn't been a problem during the summer. Dawn was confident that her space heater would see her through the winter. She did wish, however, that her neighborhood wasn't quite so empty. There was no one, it seemed, to come to her aid. "I'll have to rescue myself," she resolved. "Just like John Valjohn in the sewers of Paris. Watch out, world," Dawn shouted, "Here comes she who is less Mizerable." It didn't take her long (no more than an hour) to determine that she couldn't climb back up the manhole, for there was no ladder or stairway. So Dawn decided to wander down the sewer toward the beckoning light from another open manhole two hundred feet away. Again, there was no ladder up, nor was there at her second stop. However, her spirits brightened as her feet found dry land. Her eyes espied an electric light flooding down upon a small table and three chairs in a broad opening just ahead. Underneath the table, she saw two empty quarts of gin. Well, they weren't entirely empty. One of them had three drops of gin that Dawn, desperate for liquid refreshment, eagerly slurped. The gin was a tantalizing reminder of her hunger and thirst. She needed more! The table had a single drawer, which Dawn frantically emptied of its cards, dice, dominoes, cribbage board, checkers, chessmen, Parcheesi set, computer games, girly magazines, crossword puzzles, horseshoes, croquet mallets, badminton net, and lawn darts. "Who needs this crap?" Dawn complained to the salt-stained walls, "There must be some food and drink. I can't believe the sewer workers played these games stone sober." Just as she was about to despair, Dawn saw a small wooden box in the shadows. It contained a quart of Minnesota ros? wine that Dawn quickly quaffed to relieve her thirst. After she had relieved herself against the sewer wall, she looked for something to eat. There was a small cellophane baggy filled with a dried herb - Dawn judged it to be oregano. "Beggars can't be choosy," she said, and she washed down the entire bagful with the last of the crackling ros?. One giant burp later she looked for something more substantial. "Hunger is making me light-headed," Dawn moaned. I've got to find some real food fast." she then saw the four sugar cubes, these too were in a baggy. This one had a label: "DO NOT EAT ME!" "And why not?" demanded Dawn. "I'm starving, I need energy from food. No baggy is going to tell me what to do!" Always the rebel, Dawn gobbled down the sugar cubes as fast as she could." Satiated at last, Dawn sat down so heavily on one of the chairs that its forelegs crumpled. Once again, she found herself sprawled on the sewer floor. It was an ordeal to get up as her feet wobbled under her. "My, my," she thought, "I'm going to have to lose some weight. My legs can barely keep me upright." Was she getting heavier? So it seemed. She looked enormous. Never had her arms looked chubbier. Never had her belly looked so much like Old Saint Nick's. Her head felt like a watermelon. Her legs looked like tree stumps. Even her feet looked like redwood logs. In total despair at becoming so hopelessly fat, Dawn tried to regurgitate her breakfast; but nothing came back up. "I need a diet pill," Dawn feverishly thought. "I must weigh four hundred pounds. I look like a Japanese sumo wrestler!" Frantically, she searched the back recesses of the wooden box. Her pudgy fingertips found another baggy, this time half-filled with a fine white powder. Yet again the bag carried a bossy tag: "DO NOT EAT ME!" once again, Dawn disobeyed. She ate the white powder so quickly that you'd have thought she was inhaling it. "I do hope this will help me to lose weight," was Dawn's last lucid thought for forty-eight hours. She did indeed lose weight as she ran through the sewers at lightning speed for two full days, always five or six steps ahead of the municipal workers and their net. Her mind played tricks on her. She thought she was being chased by pink flamingos, cigar-smoking caterpillars, and crazed, hip-hopping hares. She thought she was losing her mind when a talking mouse jumped out of a singing teapot, a lobster began to calypso, and twittering bluebirds encircled her wig. It was the ultimate nightmare: Dawn was trapped in a Disney cartoon! Eventually, Dawn lost her pursuers, and easing herself into a comfortable fetal position, she had a three-hour discourse about the meaning of life and the reasons for hope with a rock outcropping that she mistook for Mickey Mouse. Hope. After seeing how many times she could say that word in sixty-nine seconds, Dawn suddenly remembered her mission: "What am I doing down here in the sewer?" she wondered. "I'm supposed to be looking for Hope. People are counting on me to find her." Unsteadily, with the help of the sewer wall, she got to her feet. She tottered towards the light shining down from an open manhole. This outlet had a ladder to the street; indeed, all the city's manholes were now equipped with ladders to the street, for the municipal workers had become desperate to get "Big Alice" out of their wonderland. Shakily Dawn climbed the ladder. Suddenly she was standing (well, actually sitting) on the street. Two taxis squealed their tires to avoid her. Dawn dusted herself off, pulled up her tights, straightened her dress, and tugged on her wig. She had wandered far from home. She didn't know this part of Newark at all. However, she could see a highway sign for Pennsylvania, so she decided to resume her journey of Hope. Since she'd lost her purse somewhere in the Newark underground, she decided she'd have to hitchhike to New Hope. There weren't many drivers who'd pick up a male hitchhiker these days, but Dawn was dressed like Alice in Wonderland. Consequently she had high hopes for a ride. A surprisingly large number of cars passed up the chance to give a lift to a ravishing blond in an extremely short dress. "Perhaps they can't see me in the building shadows," Dawn speculated. For that reason she stood in the middle of the road. A truck squealed to a halt six inches in front of her, but Dawn didn't flinch (well, not very much) when you consider it was an eighteen-wheeler bearing down on her. She didn't do much more than scream. The truck door opened invitingly. As Dawn mounted the step, the trucker leered invitingly. "Well, babe, you don't look like much, Though, I've been driving non-stop for sixteen hours and I need some shut-eye. I could use some company in the back of the cab, if you know what I mean. You be real friendly to me while I make a rest stop in Newark, and I'll make sure you get to where you're going. I know a heap of lonely guys on the road who'll give you a lift once I hail them on the CB radio." The trucker had muscular arms. As they reached towards Dawn to help her into the cab, she quickly made her decision. "I'm exhausted. I need those arms around me tonight." "Whoa there, sister. I don't sleep with no dames with a five o'clock shadow. I don't know what sex you really are. Normally I don't much care, at least not when it comes to getting a blowjob. In fact, I've found that most trannies have tongues that never quit. So you see, I'd be willing to give you a ride even if you are a guy in a dress." "So give me a hand up and let me start working on you." "I don't think so, babe. I've got some standards. You're the filthiest pervert I've ever seen. What are you, a dirt queen? Anyway, you smell like shit. So goodbye, Miss Piggy. Maybe you can hitch a ride on a garbage truck." He then pushed Dawn away, pulled the door shut, roaring off. It was true: Dawn smelled like sewage, she definitely needed a shave, especially if she was going to pass herself off as a young girl. The real Alice was definitely beardless, Dawn supposed, so she'd have to be as well. She hadn't shaved for a week; it was about time she did. First, she needed to shower, badly. Since it didn't look like rain, and she had not a dime, Dawn trundled down the road until she found a gas station with an automatic carwash. She snuck inside unnoticed and stood in the spray. It felt like an Irish spring or a fresh summer day, she hadn't felt this good in weeks. The sight of her pinafore and dress molding themselves around her ample bosom was even turning her on. Her right hand slipped under her dress; the fingers reached inside her panties and tights. Distracted, Dawn momentarily forgot where she was. She became heedless of danger. Thus, she never saw the huge brush that rolled her onto the hood of a 1972 Chevrolet Impala. Her face crushed against the windshield, as the brush moved up and down her back as she looked helplessly into the car. Inside the car a mousy, elderly man squinted at her through the coke-bottle lenses of his wire-rimmed spectacles. He squeaked with horror as one brush tossed Dawn to one side, and another pressed her body against the front passenger-side door. Dawn grabbed the car door handle for dear life. Briefly, the roller retreated. She pulled open the door and dove onto the car's front seat, just as a wave of soapsuds broke over the startled driver. The mousy little man was still gasping for breath, soap bubbles floating skyward from his mouth and nose, as his car received a blow dry and a wax job. By the time the Chevy had been released from the moving chain, the myopic little man had recovered enough to realize that Dawn was turning blue. She was on the verge of drowning although most of the water had seeped from the car through its airtight seams. It was like a wet dream, Dawn was French-kissing someone - for the first time in months. Who was it? The mousy little man who had been trying to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. That's who it was. With great difficulty he pried himself loose from Dawn's grasping tongue. "Come on you two," yelled the carwash attendant. He didn't have a clear view, but what he could see disgusted him. What he saw was an old man lying on top of a female of indeterminate age that was much too young for him, judging from her little-girl dress. This man was the most brazen child molester he'd ever come across. "I should call the police. I really should!" he yelled. "Get the hell out of here, you pervert! I know your car; don't let me see it around here no more, never again." He then gave the Chevy a violent kick. "Oh my, oh my," squeaked the mousy little man as he fumbled with the ignition. To Dawn he said, "I wasn't trying to molest you. I'm not a masher. I was just trying to give you the kiss of life." Dawn thought to herself, as the Chevy jerked into gear, "For an old geezer, your kiss had a lot of life to it. I'm ready for more." To the mousy little man, she said quite demurely, batting her eyelashes, "I know, I know. You saved my life. Is there any special way I can thank you?" Flutter, flutter went her long eyelashes. As they did, soap suds flew off in all directions. Two globs coated the little man's glasses. Almost totally blind, he yanked the wheel hard right and the car came to an abrupt stop, with its two right wheels halfway across a sidewalk. The mousy little man quaked with fear and mortification. As he was afraid to speak to Dawn, he complained to his side mirror, "What am I going to do now? I can't go back to the carwash ever again. What or what am I going to do?" Dawn spoke for the mirror: "What's the big deal. So you're not wanted at the carwash for some reason. So what? There's lot of carwashes in town. Jeez, there's one near where I live that costs half as much, and they use recycled water!" "You don't understand," the little man replied to the mirror. "I'm terrified of driving. I've been afraid ever since my wife was killed in a car accident. That was almost thirty years ago. This is the car I bought with the insurance money. I've been keeping it looking as good as new in my wife's memory. So I've been getting it washed once a week ever since I got it. I've memorized every inch of the route to the carwash. It's only two blocks from my home. It's been my weekly outing - something for me to do in retirement. Now whatever shall I do? Woe, woe is me." Dawn's mouth gaped in astonishment. Never had she met a more timid little man. "You're afraid to drive more than two blocks? What are you a man or a..." She didn't finish the sentence for the answer was self-evident. The little man nodded abjectly to the mirror. Dawn considered her options. She needed a ride to New Hope and this little man needed some hope in his life. It was high time that he hit the road looking for adventure. For the mousy little man's own good Dawn decided to fib a little about her age. "He's more likely to help me get to New Hope," she thought, "if he thinks I'm as young as I dress. After all, who could abandon a child in distress?" So Dawn asked, "Mister, do you have a name?" "Mortimer" the little man glumly replied, still staring at his side mirror. "No, I mean your last name. My mother told me I should always call adults by their last name. What is it, Mister? Tell me please." "It's Raton. My father was south Peruvian." Still he was afraid to look at the face of his companion. "Here, Mr. Raton, let me clean your glasses. They're covered with soap." As Mortimer timidly and slowly turned towards her, Dawn took the tip of her pinafore and deliberately used it to smear the lenses, making it almost impossible for him to see out of them. Even had they been as clear as his social calendar, Mortimer would still have had difficulty seeing Dawn for what she really was for he was almost as blind as Mr. Magoo. "How old do you think I am, Mr. Raton?" chirped Dawn in a little-girl voice. Mortimer shuddered as he remembered the accusations of the carwash attendant. "I know you're a little girl, what with the way you're dressed. I wasn't trying to kiss you; you must know that. You're much too young to kiss anyone but your parents - or maybe your grandfather. And even then, only on the cheek." Impulsively Dawn kissed Mortimer on his right cheek. "I'm old enough to kiss boys," she said. "After all, I'm a... teenager." Then, as she thought about the trip she had to make, she added, "I'm even old enough to drive. I have my learning permit. As long as you're with me in the car, I can drive anywhere in daylight." Mortimer had liked the peck on his cheek. It had been a long time since anyone had shown him that much affection. He couldn't for the life of him understand why Dawn had been hiding in a carwash. Maybe she was a runaway. Whatever her story, she needed his help. Granted she was almost full-grown, but she was still scarcely more than a child -- a child in trouble. As a responsible adult, he had to help her as best he could. "What's... your name, child?" Mortimer timidly asked. "It's Dawn, and I'm not really a child. I'm old enough to drive this car," Dawn reminded him. "But Dawn, you still dress like a little girl. So you're not as grown up as you think. You remind me of Judy Garland when she played Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. She was a big girl too - as big as you - but she was at heart a vulnerable little child." "If you say so," Dawn cooed. "I am too young to hitchhike. That's for sure. Yet I'm off to see my bestest friend in the whole world. She lives in New Hope. Can you take me to see her? Can you, pretty please? Please, please, please, Mr. Raton." She kissed Mortimer again on his cheek. "But Dawn, I've told you that I'm afraid to drive more than two blocks from my home. How can I possibly drive you to New Hope? I would drive you if I dared. But I am too fearful." He began to sniffle noisily. "Move over," Dawn said brusquely. "I'll drive." As Mortimer had never disobeyed an order in his life, he grimly circled the car to switch seats with Dawn. He brightened up, however, when she gave him another peck on the cheek. Then, their seatbelts firmly buckled, Dawn gunned the engine. Its wheels spinning, the Chevy for the first time in its long life had a racing start. With Mortimer holding on to the door handle for dear life, his face puffed up under the g- force, Dawn steered the car into its first chicane at sixty miles an hour. As the city traffic scattered, Dawn threw back her tresses and laughed with delight. She and Mortimer were bound for glory. CHAPTER 3 - ALL MUST HAVE PRIZES "You're still dripping wet, dear child. How are we going to dry you off?" "Open the windows wide. We'll go even faster. I'll get blow-dried." The strategy seemed to work... for Dawn. Poor Mortimer was, however, so frightened by their high velocity that he began to babble: "George Washington was, you know, whipped badly in most of his early battles; but he persevered until he won the big one. Theodore Roosevelt was a puny runt when he was a kid, yet he led the charge up San Juan Hill. And his cousin Franklin inspired this nation to victory in World War II while restricted to a wheelchair." "That's nice," replied Dawn, who couldn't see his point any better than Mortimer could see the road. "As for Abraham Lincoln," Mortimer continued, "he'd go to Civil War battlefields to urge his generals to fight. John F. Kennedy was in constant pain from his war wounds, and Andrew Jackson used to spit blood during his presidential speeches." Mortimer went on like this for several minutes before Dawn finally asked, "What's the lecture about, Mr. Raton? Does it have a moral?" "Why certainly it does, dear child. I was just thinking about all the courageous presidents we've had." "That's nice. But what's that to us? There is no one around like that today." "No, you're wrong about that, Dawn. It takes a lot of courage these days just to have everyone know where you live. It takes guts to live in the White House, guts I wish I had." "You're more courageous than you think you are, Mr. Raton. Aren't you speeding along state highway 202 with a total stranger? That takes guts. You're no wimp. I just know you'll stick with me until I find Hope. She's the friend I'm looking for." "You know I'll stand by you, Dawn. You're like a granddaughter to me." Actually, he was barely old enough to be her father, but Dawn kept him in the dark about her true age by periodically smudging his eyeglasses. "Mr. Raton?" "Dawn, that's so formal. Please call me Mortimer or, if you like, grandy." "Mortimer, do you think we could stop somewhere so I could get some toiletries. I must look a fright. I lost my purse; so I am going to need everything. I even need, blush, a fresh pair of panties." "Sure, Dawn, it will be my pleasure. We'll get whatever you need." When the car came screeching to a stop in the K-Mart parking lot, Dawn suggested that she go into the store alone, for, as she said, it would be embarrassing to buy private "girl stuff" with a man hanging about. In fact, she didn't want any of the sales staff to reveal her true age and sex to Mortimer. It was sweet that he thought Dawn a sixteen-year-old girl. Why disillusion him? Once in the store with Mortimer's money clip, Dawn looked for the handsomest salesman she could find. She saw him from below as he stood on a ladder to put some stock on a top shelf. A curly-haired blond, he was in his late teens and Dawn could see from the shape and tone of his buttocks that he worked out with weights. She patted him on his back pocket to get his attention. Startled, he almost fell off the ladder, but Dawn held him steady, one hand pulling on his back pocket, the other propping him up at the crotch. The salesman eased down the ladder very, very slowly, for he assumed a young lady was feeling him up. Well, not exactly a lady. But by a female in any case. By the time he was on terra firma and looking into Dawn's eyes, he was visibly aroused. "Ah miss," he said, "what can I do for you? Do you need to be served?" "I'm always ready to be served." She looked for his nametag. It read, "Frodo." "Frodo? That's a joke, right? That can't be your real name." His face frowned. "Yes, it's my real name, but I wish it wasn't. My parents were big fans of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings when I was born. So they called me Frodo. I guess it could have been worse. It could have been Gandalf." "But Frodo's the perfect name for you," Dawn gushed, "because he's such a cute little hobbit. And you're about as cute as they come." Frodo blushed, his face deepening into scarlet as Dawn's hand flicked across his chin. As her tongue wetted her lips, and her eyes bored into his, Frodo looked away in confusion. Never before had an older woman come onto him so hungrily. His fantasies came into play. "Maybe," Frodo speculated, "I'll get laid at last." He realized that he'd be soon creaming his black jeans if he didn't get his mind off sex, and so Frodo asked, "What is it that you want to buy? Our prices are very good." "Whatever your price is, honey, I'm willing to pay it." As Frodo stared at her with blank incomprehension, Dawn decided to do some shopping. She figured that she'd have lots of opportunity for sexual innuendo if Frodo accompanied her around the store. But he was likely, she feared, to do a funk if she asked for help with feminine toiletries. So she took a big gamble. Actually, it wasn't that big a gamble, for if Frodo turned and ran like a scared little boy she hadn't lost very much. And if he remained interested after he'd learned her little secret, then she'd hit the jackpot. "I need some shaving cream and a man's razor," Dawn said, just pausing along for Frodo to look more closely at her chin before adding, "They're for my brother. He's a hairy beast, you know." Frodo couldn't help but notice that Dawn needed a shave. For some reason, her stubble turned him on. He wasn't sure why. Possibly the hair made her earthier. This was, Frodo hoped, a woman who was up for almost anything. Maybe this was the day that he'd realize two of his fantasies: Not only would he lose his virginity but he'd get his first blowjob. When they got to the men's shaving section, Frodo - with a little encouragement from Dawn - bent over to get a can of Gillette foamy. Dawn's hands were suddenly all over his buttocks and groin. There was no one with a view down their aisle as Frodo wheeled about to take Dawn into his arms. Frodo ejaculated into his plaid cotton boxers as their tongues met. After they had explored each other's mouth for another five minutes, Dawn decided to share her little secret: "Frodo, I am not quite what I seem," she mumbled as she freed her mouth from his. "What do you mean?" he gasped. "You seem perfect to me. My shift ends in fifteen minutes and I want to take you somewhere where we can make endless love together." "Frodo, I'm heading to New Hope, and I want you to go with me. I will teach you all the positions of the Karma Sutra. I will teach you all the secrets of the orgasm. I will make you one of the world's great lovers." It was a good speech, but a trifle misleading since only one man had ever described Dawn as the best sex he'd ever had, and he was a necrophiliac. Even so, Frodo was too na?ve to know that Dawn had as much zest in bed as a peeled lemon. "I'll definitely go with you to New Hope," Frodo exclaimed, "provided you promise to spend the entire night making love with me." "I promise," said Dawn, as she added under her breath, "until I fall asleep" - which was usually about fifteen minutes after her head hit the pillow. "There is one little thing you need to know, however, before you get into my car. First, it belongs to an elderly gent named Mortimer." "You're not sleeping with him, are you?" Frodo asked with some alarm. "Heaven's no. He'll sit in the back while we cuddle together on the bench seat in front." "That's okay by me. I've long fantasized about being an exhibitionist. But you said there were two little things I had to know about you and the car. What's your last little secret? You're not married, are you?" Dawn put her hands on Frodo's haunches and pulled him toward her. He was straining to have his body enter hers - through several layers of clothes - as she whispered, "I'm actually a guy - a guy in women's clothes." Then she plunged her tongue down his throat, stifling his reply. For a while Frodo struggled frantically, first for breath, then to free himself from Dawn's bear hug. But his efforts gradually ceased as he surrendered to his fate. This was the day chosen for Frodo to lose his virginity. Who said he had to lose it to a genetic girl? Frodo decided that Dawn was woman enough for him. Besides, she'd whispered in his ear that she planned to teach him the joys of oral sex. As Frodo watched Dawn's butt wiggle on her way to women's toiletries and lingerie, he decided he also wanted her to teach him something about anal sex. Frodo approved of her purchases in the teen department - he actually admired her little-girl look - but he liked the sheer red nylon negligee best. That she'd had bought in the most adult department of the store. As he watched Dawn buy the most intimate of feminine necessities, Frodo almost forgot that she was male. "I'll just close my eyes at key moments," Frodo said to himself, "and it will be like going to bed with Goldie Hawn." Mortimer was far from pleased to learn that Frodo was accompanying them to New Hope. They gave each other a questioning look and then a limp handshake. However, Mortimer's spirits lifted when he learned that Dawn wanted Frodo to do the driving. "Thank god for little mercies," Mortimer thought, "at least we'll get to New Hope in one piece." Frodo drove so carefully, even gingerly, that Mortimer actually fell asleep in the back seat, blissfully unaware that Frodo's mind was not on his driving. Dawn's head was in his lap. Thoroughly distracted, Frodo didn't notice the first two cars race by. The third caught his attention, however, for its driver (a boy about his own age) was challenging him to a road race. Frodo rose to the challenge, with the result that Dawn almost gagged. Frodo was a big boy for his age. Dawn ended up fellating the gearshift after Frodo shifted to racing form. They ended up racing three other cars (all of them Ford Fairlanes) down route 202. As the lead car would slow down to let the others catch up, it was impossible to say who'd actually been the fastest. All that was known was that the car would need another carwash after Mortimer vomited twice on the exterior rear door. When Frodo finally pulled up beside the three Fords in a roadside clearing, both Dawn and he were whooping with exuberance. This was really living! Mortimer didn't think so; he cowered in the back seat when Dawn and Frodo surged from the Chevy to meet the six boys who spilled out of the three Fords. "Hi, I'm Rex," said the boy who'd first challenged Frodo, as he shook hands all around while leering at Dawn, the only "female" among them. "Who won?" yelled out one youth. "Yes, who was fastest?" called out another. "No one was fastest. Everyone was fastest," Rex proclaimed. He was clearly the alpha male for everyone deferred to him. "Since everyone won, all must have prizes," he declared. "But what sort of prizes?" asked three of the teens in unison. "The best prize possible, if the lady here is willing," Rex replied. "This is the chance of a lifetime," he said to Dawn, "because you're already half in your grave, and I bet it's been years since you were invited to an orgy. This may be your last chance ever for some hot action. What do you say? Will you be our prize?" While Dawn was pondering her options, Frodo made sure that she wasn't asked to spread her legs for the boys. He didn't know if she was fool enough to agree to intercourse, but he was taking no chances on anyone else finding out her true sex. He didn't want a rumble. So Frodo made the decision for her: "Dawn's my bitch, and she'll do whatever I say. Dawn, I think you should give each of the prizewinners a blowjob." About thirty-five minutes later, the seven boys gave Dawn a prize of her own: the gearshift knob from Rex's cherry red car. They joked that she could suck on it like hard-rock candy whenever she wanted to remember this day. As they returned to their Chevy, Frodo had to admit that it had turned him on to watch her go down on so many guys. I guess I'm a voyeur as well as an exhibitionist," he admitted, as he recalled being the only one to run around naked. "You're my kind of guy," Dawn gushed. "There's nothing sexier than a voyeuristic exhibitionist. We make the perfect couple." Mortimer, on the other hand, was the odd man out. He hadn't got laid in three decades, and he claimed to be mortified by what he'd seen from the rear window of the Chevy. And yet the sights and sounds of lovemaking had mightily stirred him. There was hope now for Mortimer: He was not dead yet. Indeed, now that he realized that Dawn was, despite her childlike appearance, something of a slut, he began to plot to get into her Winnie the Pooh panties. It would take some time, Mortimer appreciated, for Dawn understandably preferred boys closer to her own age. But she wouldn't always have a Frodo or Rex at her fingertips, and there would come a day when Mortimer would have his chance to come inside the comely lass. With Dawn now doing the driving, and Mortimer sitting between the two lovers as a chaperone, they sped towards New Hope. They arrived about two o'clock in the afternoon, which gave them several hours to search for Hope before they'd have to make a decision on where to stay the night. Dawn realized that she still didn't have any money, and when she wasn't asking passers-by whether they had seen a boy named Allan or a girl named Hope, she fretted about how Mortimer would react to being asked to pay for two rooms, with one of them having a double bed for Frodo and her. As the three of them searched for Hope in the small tourist town on the banks of the Delaware River, it gradually dawned on Mortimer and Frodo that they were on a fool's errand. They were astonished to discover that Dawn and Hope had never met, indeed that Dawn had no idea of her friend's appearance or age. "Then how we can find her? How will you even know, Dawn, that we have found her?" "I'll know Hope when I see her. I am sure of that," Dawn countered. However, her companions were far from optimistic, especially after Dawn admitted that her girlfriend was probably going around "en drab" as a male named Allan. "Do you mean to say," spluttered Mortimer, "that Hope could be anyone on the street?" Yes, that's what Dawn was saying, and after she'd downed her first six coffees (oak-aged Saudi Arabica, one of her favorites) she even admitted that she wasn't even sure if Hope lived in Pennsylvania. These confessions Frodo and Mortimer found unnerving. They began to wonder whether their newfound friend was playing with less than a full deck. That was the unsought opinion of dozens of the people they met in the ice cream emporia and antique shops of New Hope: "You have noticed," they'd say, "that your friend is dressed like Alice in Wonderland. Don't you think that's a wee bit odd?" Neither Mortimer nor Frodo had thought Dawn strangely dressed when they first saw her, for neither got out much. However, with so many people tut-tutting about her pinafore and mini-dress, both began to wonder whether Dawn was as crazy as she was sexy. After due consideration, Frodo decided he wasn't going to let a little thing like dementia get in the way of his finally having sexual intercourse with another human being. As for Mortimer, it deeply wounded him to learn that the beautiful child he'd rescued from the carwash was a psychotic nymphomaniac. Nevertheless, her search for Hope had become his hope for a future worth living; and he does not intend to abandon her before she or he had gotten lucky. At nine o'clock Dawn finally admitted they weren't going to find Hope in Pennsylvania, and they rented two rooms in the Master Bates Motel. Dawn had been surprised when Mortimer readily agreed to her sharing a double room with Frodo. She'd figured he used his control over the purse strings to insist on his own arrangements. Yet, after a brief conversation with Norman, the motel manager, he took the room adjoining Dawn's and, yawning broadly, wished "you two kids a very good night." It never occurred to Dawn that the blinking eyes in the stuffed dodo bird in her bathroom were Mortimer's or that he almost had a heart attack the first time he saw her naked in the shower. Mortimer was so upset to learn that Dawn was in fact a male that he briefly debated whether he should rush over with a knife to cut off her offending member. However, his anger faded as he watched Frodo and Dawn make love in the shower. Again, he felt something stir that had been moribund for decades. The eyes squinting through the stuffed albatross in Dawn's bedroom were tear-filled as Mortimer watched her body move synchronously with Frodo's as the boy for the first time experienced the ecstasy of sexual intercourse. Mortimer longed to take the boy's place on top of Dawn. To his astonishment, Mortimer, a heterosexual when he last had sex during the Vietnam War, found himself falling in love with Dawn, a cross-dressing "teenage" male. For the rest of the night, as Frodo repeatedly awakened Dawn for sex, Mortimer sat in his own room talking to a stuffed parrot. "Polly," he repeatedly asked, "tell me how to keep the search for Hope alive. I don't want Dawn to give up in despair. I've got to think of a way to keep Hope alive in Dawn's breast." He blushed at the word. Dawn's breasts greatly excited Mortimer even though he now knew they were falsies. But were they ever big! Around four o'clock in the morning, the parrot talked. At least, Mortimer would always swear it did. "Didn't you tell me, Mortimer, that Dawn's friend is a big fan of former President Clinton? Didn't she say that Hope staked out his office for several days in the hope that he'd see her and invite her in for a cigar?" "That's true," Mortimer sleepily replied. And then he knew where Hope had to be living if she had, as Dawn believed, taken her name from her own hometown. She must be living in Hope, Arkansas! Bill Clinton came from there; he was the man from Hope. The Arkansas town was more than a thousand miles away. By the time he and Dawn got there, they'd have had time to fall in love. But what if Frodo insisted on coming along for the ride? "Why not?" Mortimer thought, "just as long as I get to watch when they have sex." In the morning, Mortimer would tell Dawn that Hope was to be found in President Clinton's birthplace near the Texas state line. If she believed him, they'd be heading westward into the sunset, as had so many hopeful Americans in days of yore. They'd be journeying across the Midwest, and Mortimer expected to find some hope for himself in the optimistic, friendly villages, towns and cities of the heartland. A "girl" named Hope might be permanently beyond their grasp, but Mortimer knew - he just knew - that a "girl" named Dawn had become his hope for a better tomorrow. Sometime around dawn Frodo decided that he wanted another night with Dawn. He readily agreed with Mortimer that Hope must be living in Arkansas. Together they persuaded Dawn to continue her quest for Hope. Dawn, exhausted by the libido of her teenaged lover, slept alone in the back seat as Frodo aimed the Chevy for Arkansas. Mortimer, sitting closely beside him in the front, couldn't help but think, "Frodo's quite attractive for a boy." CHAPTER 4 - A LIZARD RIDES A RABBIT For lunch, Dawn probably should have guzzled fewer than eight cups of coffee (from beans grown high in the Blue Mountain ridge of North Carolina), for the Chevy had been positively flying across Pennsylvania and Ohio since she'd taken over the driving. She was definitely wired, and she was frantic to find a full-service rest stop. (Dawn preferred to pee sitting on a heated toilet seat.) With her legs tightly crossed, and just one hand on the steering wheel (the other was clutching Frodo's gearbox), she was having trouble staying in the passing lane of westbound Interstate 70. As she felt Frodo twitch into overdrive, Dawn's eyes strayed from the road. The Chevy wandered into the right- hand lane reserved for slower traffic. A horn blared. Startled, Dawn almost drove into the ditch as a rusty white Rabbit swerved around the Chevy to the left as though it were standing still. Dawn, ever the patriot, wasn't willing to have a German car zoom past her, even if it had a six or seven year advantage over her elderly American make. So she pumped all seven working cylinders and raced after the presumptuous little foreigner. "Damn the Kaiser," Dawn yelled as she urged her Chevy onward. It was a battle cry from her youth. No, silly, Dawn wasn't old enough to remember World War I. She wasn't that old. It wasn't the German emperor her father used to curse. Rather it was the family car of her childhood, built by the short-lived, lamentable Kaiser- Frazer Company of Willow Run. So it made sense to Dawn repeatedly to bellow "Damn the Kaiser" - to the bewilderment of Mortimer and Frodo - as she chased after the white Rabbit. The car was, after all, a Teutonic challenge to the "American way." She chased the Rabbit for more than twelve miles; she even followed it into the parking lot of the Salem Mall in Dayton, Ohio. To her immense satisfaction, she was able to beat it to the last convenient parking spot by doing a slalom race around and past two bicyclists, three grocery carts, four walking persons, five motor cars, six vans or trucks, and a partridge in a pear tree (which was being loaded onto a u-haul trailer). Fortunately for Dawn, the seven police cars had been thrown off her scent by the quick detour she and the car took through a carwash. "You should have told us you were going to get the car washed," spluttered Frodo as Dawn expertly wheeled the Chevy into the parking space yawning wide in front of the northern entrance of the mall. "Yes," gasped Mortimer. "I... almost... drowned." He was breathing like a guppy out of water. "Dawn, next time give us some warning, so that we can roll up the car windows," Frodo said as he shook the suds off his curly locks. He fixed Dawn with a severe look. Dawn hadn't seen a look like that since the day she'd attempted to filch two eggs from a bird's nest for her morning omelet. The girl scouts hadn't been pleased either. They'd taken no pity on her, despite her many bites, cuts and abrasions; her troop voted unanimously to fire her as their leader, and by doing so, had effectively ended her association with scouting after some thirty years of devotion and sexy uniforms. Dawn still thought the punishment unfair. How was she to know that the bird was an eagle or that eagles were a protected species? After all, with a bald head like that, couldn't it have been a species of bat? Indeed, Dawn was convinced that her aversion to work during the daylight hours proved it had been a vampire bat and her expulsion from scouting a case of mistaken identity. Something struck the Chevy. "A bird?" Dawn anxiously wondered. Ever since her encounter with the vampire bat who'd cross-dressed as an eagle, Dawn had lived in mortal fear that she'd be attacked by a flock of vengeful birds, like in Alfred Hitchcock's movie, "The Birds." But it wasn't a bird hitting the car; it was a human fist. And it belonged to an irate little man who claimed to be the owner of the white Rabbit that she'd been racing. He was upset at being cut off. "Oh my, oh my!" squeaked Mortimer. Fear and anxiety froze him in place. Only his quivering nose moved. Frodo was irresolute. Had he been able to fly, he would have counterattacked, but Dawn's breasts were so large (they hugged the steering wheel) - that it was well-nigh impossible for Frodo to crawl past them to the little man who was pounding on Dawn's side of the car. It was up to Dawn, therefore, to protect the Chevy and its little band of travelers. "Hey lizard face, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Dawn diplomatically asked. Why lizard face? Did the little man actually look like one? Did he have a snout? A long, narrow face? A face pocked with acne? No, he had a round face, with a cute little pug nose, and fleshy lips. His skin, far from being lizard-like, was unusually soft for a man's. The face was, in fact, rather beautiful - especially for a male. A scraggly brown moustache was the only imperfection. It looked like the sort of moustache a sixteen-year-old boy would grow; yet this guy was definitely in his early twenties. So why did Dawn call the little man "lizard face"? One is never sure when it calms to Dawn, for her brain works differently than most people's. She'd say that it works on a higher, more abstract plane, but even her friends consider her thinking plainly more distracted than abstract. And "higher" was not an adjective that one normally used to describe Dawn's thought processes, for even she had to admit that she thought about sex twice as much as the normal fifteen-year-old boy. So why lizard face? It must have been because of his matching lizard-skin boots and belt. Possibly, Dawn felt that anyone with a passion for dead lizards might object to being called a live one. She had, after all, discovered that women who wear leather don't like being called a "cow." And no matter how many sweaters they wore, most men found it insulting to be called a "sheep." So, Dawn may have been conducting her own version of psychological warfare. "Lizard face?" the little man repeated. "Lizard face? That's your big insult? Lizard face? What kind of person are you?" And then he looked for the first time into the car, where he saw an oversized Alice in Wonderland. The little man broke into laughter. His taut little belly shook with laughter. His biceps rippled with delight. His cheeks - all four of them - quivered with pleasure. He chortled: "Oh, this is rich. I've gone down the rabbit hole, and I've found Alice after she's eaten cake that's made her the biggest ten-year-old girl in the whole wide world. And you're tall too!" Then the little man fell down laughing. Dawn saw her opportunity. She leapt from the car to kick the little man while he was down. However, he was too quick for her: the little man grabbed her raised foot, throwing Dawn off balance. She then fell onto him - or as he saw it - she fell into his arms. "Come on, Alice, give daddy a big kiss." He pressed Dawn's face to his. He was remarkably strong for his size; he obviously worked out. As his tongue slithered between Dawn's lips, she thought, "He really is like a lizard where it counts. What an incredibly long tongue! He's got to be the world's best kisser." That thought was enough to end all struggle. Her mouth began to work like a vacuum pump as Dawn tightened her arms around the little man to make sure that he didn't escape. Dawn and the little man quite forgot themselves. As six middle-aged ladies looked on in horror and three young boys in amazement, they pawed each other like dogs in heat. Simultaneously, indecorously, their hands found each other's crotch. They grabbed each other's genitals. Then, suddenly, frantically, they pulled away. They scrambled to be free of each other. Despite the tremendous suction, the little man even extracted his tongue. They leapt to their feet, a safe three feet apart. "You're a... You're not a..." the little man stammered. "You're not a... You're a..." Dawn stammered. The little man laughed. It was contagious: Dawn laughed. Frodo and Mortimer laughed. They had been first alarmed, then confused, finally jealous as Dawn and the little man had sniffed each other out. Everyone had a good belly laugh, though only Dawn and the little man knew that the joke was on them. The little man had discovered that Big Alice was really a man, and Dawn had learned that she'd been French-kissing a little woman. It was all very topsy- turvy. Dawn had just kissed her first woman and had quite enjoyed it. Indeed, even now, she wanted more. The "little man" had also seen a new dawn, for this was "his" first sexual encounter with a genetic male (which Dawn was, despite her impressively big bosom). "What am I?" each of them thought - together, as though they had found the same wavelength. "Am I a homosexual? A heterosexual? A bisexual? I'm not sure anymore. I always thought my sexuality a curiosity, but now it's getting curioser and curioser." As neither was a cat - she comes much later in our tale - Dawn and the "little man" felt it safe to surrender to curiosity. They moved closer, close enough for Dawn to feel a tongue flickering on her moistening lips. "My name is Dawn. What's yours?" Dawn decided she couldn't keep on thinking of him as "the little man," for he was - despite his manly ways - actually a woman, or something like that. "It's Bill. At least, that's been my name for years." He looked over toward the car where both Frodo and Mortimer had shifted to the driver's side to eavesdrop more effectively. Indeed, Frodo was leaning out of the window to catch every word and wink. The crowd of on-lookers was also growing larger and more raucous. Some of