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Revenant
By Cal Y. Pygia
We all knew that Bradford had killed Julia. The problem was that none
of us, or even the police, could prove that the bastard had committed
the crime. He had an armor-clad alibi. His mistress, Susana, had sworn
he'd been with her all night. Actually, her exact words were, "He was
insatiable!"
Fortunately, justice does not always depend upon human agency.
On the third night following Julia's burial, my telephone rang.
It was Madeline Albright, the owner of La Petite, one of our town's
more exclusive boutiques. (Actually, it's our only boutique.) It was
the only place in three hundred miles that one could actually purchase
a Versace, a Gucci, or a Scarvelli. Julia had spent a lot of Bradford's
money there, buying high-fashion costumes and accessories before the
bastard killed her. Over time, Julia came to own several of each
designer's gowns and the shoes, purses, and jewelry, all in diamonds
and gold, to match. In that respect, I must grudgingly admit, Bradford
had treated her well--at least, until he met Susana.
"Hello, Mad," I said, recognizing my caller's voice at once; Madeline
and I had been friends since high school.
"You'll never guess what just happened! Bradford Lane was just here,
and he bought one of my gowns--a Versace."
"The bastard! It's probably a gift for his mistress, that slut Susana."
"I don't think so. She's a size six, I'd say, but he bought a size
sixteen!"
"A sixteen? Hell, that's more his size than Susana's."
"Exactly."
"What are you saying, Mad, that Bradford Lane is some kind of pervert?
A transvestite?"
"I don't know what to think. That's why I called you."
"Hell, I don't know what to think, either."
"That's not all. He bought some shoes--again, they were more his size
than any woman's--and he had a strange, distracted look on his face."
"Guilt?" It didn't seem likely. Bradford hadn't shown the least bit of
remorse, sorrow, or shame in the wake of his wife's demise. Instead,
the son-of-a-bitch had booked a trip to Cancun with his paramour, more
to celebrate than to mourn Julia's death. That's why I thought he'd
been buying the gown for Susana, as a gift to take with her on their
trip. The bastard was probably planning to return from Mexico with a
bride to take the place of his murdered wife.
"More like preoccupied--and scared."
"Bradford? Scared?" I nearly laughed. Bradford might be a prick, but no
one had ever accused him of cowardice. If it's one thing the murderous
bastard has, it's balls.
"No, he seemed frightened, Lola. He seemed terrified. It was almost as
if he were hearing voices that only he could hear or like he was
possessed."
It seemed unbelievable, but Madeline wasn't the sort to invent stories
about others, and she wasn't given to exaggeration.
"There's more," Madeline advised me. "His lips seemed unusually pink,
almost red."
"Now, you're saying he was wearing lipstick?"
"And eye shadow, I think."
This time, I did laugh. "Really, Mad!"
There was a pause. Then, she added, "And blush."
"You really are saying Bradford's a crossdresser!"
"I am not!"
"What would you call a man who wears makeup and buys women's clothing
in his size?"
"Weird."
"He's weird, all right," I agreed. "I guess we just never knew how
weird."
In the next few weeks, not only Mad and I were to discover how weird
Bradford had become, but all the residents of Summersville would also
learn the same fact. For, time and time again, Bradford, wearing the
same terrified, distracted expression on his face and muttering to
himself, as if in response to voices heard only by himself, appeared in
public, wearing a skirt and a blouse with pantyhose, high heels, a
necklace or other jewelry, a dress or a gown, or other feminine attire,
carrying a purse, his face made up with foundation, mascara, eyeliner,
eye shadow, blush, and lipstick, his nails sculpted and painted, and a
blonde, brunette, or red wig crowning his transformation.
Bradford had, indeed, become a crossdresser. His abrupt lifestyle
change was too much for Susana. Neither Bradford's wealth nor his
generosity toward her, which was far more lavish than he'd bestowed
upon poor Julia, was sufficient to persuade his mistress to accept his
transvestism. She was gone almost as soon as Bradford began to adopt a
feminine appearance. I could understand how it would have been hard for
the slut to accept such a change; it was difficult for me and other
townspeople who'd known Bradford far longer to accept or, given his
macho nature, to believe.
It became a lot easier to believe when Bradford was arrested for having
sex with another man. I heard the story from Mad.
"He'd been drinking at Pat's Lounge," she informed me, in a telephone
call she made shortly after the incident occurred.
I grimaced. Pat's Lounge was one of the seedier bars in Summersville.
"A drunk hit on him," Mad continued. "A few minutes later, they were in
the back of Bradford's limousine, the driver having been instructed to
?take a walk--a long walk.'"
I gulped, shaking my head. It was hard enough to believe that the
ultra-masculine Bradford had taken to dressing as a woman; it was even
harder to accept the fact that he was having sex with other men, that
he was homosexual.
"Bradford was on his elbows and knees, on the floor between the facing
rear seats, with the other man's cock up his ass, humping him, when the
police officer arrived," Mad advised me. "Naturally, Bradford bailed
himself out, although rumor has it that he left his lover in jail. The
cops are still laughing and shaking their heads over the whole sordid
affair."
"I'll bet," I said. We gossiped about some of the other, more mundane
matters that had transpired in and around Summersville, but, it was
obvious, nothing else could top the news of Bradford's arrest for
having sex with another man in the back seat of his limousine, so we
exchanged farewells and returned to our respective routines, Madeline
to her sales and me to my soaps (although nothing on even these steamy
shows was apt to beat the melodrama that Bradford's life had become
upon Julia's demise).
Shortly after his arrest, Bradford began to wear women's clothing all
the time, wherever he went. He wore makeup, too, just as Madeline had
reported, and his presentation of himself was complete with a handbag,
pumps or heels, and an assortment of expensive jewelry. He had good
taste in women's clothing, especially for a man.
PERSONAL NOTE: I have decided to discontinue the writing of
transgendered erotica, at least for a while. I may decide to continue,
at a future date, or this may be my last story of this kind. I have
enjoyed writing these stories, and I have enjoyed reading the readers'
comments. I am glad that many seem to have enjoyed reading my work.
Take care.
Love, Cal.
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