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Author's note: This is a work of fiction and fantasy. References to the Vietnam War and Naval Aviation in general as well as to Naval Air Station Miramar in particular were done for story background; there is no actual resemblance to real persons, Navy Fighter Squadrons, Aircraft Carriers or factual happenings. These characters, entities, and events took flight solely in the "theater of my imagination." There they will remain. Suffice it to say, I have nothing but the utmost admiration and respect for those Navy Fighter Pilots who flew and fought over the hostile skies of North Vietnam. WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ANDY CREWSON? By Ginger Collins PROLOGUE It was a typical ending to another great Southern California day. My spouse and I were relaxing on our lanai in the foothills above Miramar overlooking the Pacific Ocean and watching the sunset. Each of us was alone in our thoughts. Neither had to speak. After more than three decades of marriage, we communicated by gesture and body language as well as verbally. The chilled Chardonnay we were sipping contributed to our contentment. Both of us were holding up against the race of time. I reflected, however, that I was becoming a little frumpy or dowdy in my appearance as I approached my 60th birthday. Gravity and middle-age spread had taken their toll. My breasts were sagging, and a panty girdle was a necessity on those rare occasions that we dressed up. Where once I had been a veritable fashion horse, now I was content to while away the hours in slacks, a sweatshirt, and sensible shoes. My salt-and-pepper hair was cut short for minimum maintenance. My only concession to female vanity was lipstick and small, gold studs in my pierced ears. This was a far cry from my days in designer dresses, stiletto heels, lacquered nails, and expensive coiffures. I found myself nodding in the affirmative. Yes, it had been a good life and I was happy to be where I was and run out the clock. Off in the distance in the rapidly fading blue sky, I could see white-high- altitude-condensation trails carved out by military jets, probably FA-18 aircraft from Marine Corps Air Station Miramar. That immediately brought back a flood of distant memories. I must have reacted. Madeline reached over and squeezed my hand. I squeezed her hand gently in return and lovingly looked at my companion of 30-plus years. It had been and continued to be quite a relationship that is hard to explain, let alone understand. Passionately in love, we had started out as man and wife. After one year into our marriage and with her full support, I began psychiatric counseling and, subsequently, hormone therapy in preparation for male-to-female sexual reassignment surgery. Two years later I underwent the surgery and legally changed from Andrew to Tiffany, a transsexual. We have remained married and completely devoted to each other. For whatever unfathomable reason, we are as happy together as a lesbian couple as we had been as husband and wife. "Yes, Tiffy?" she asked. "Oh, nothing, Maddie. I was just musing about the old days." "Like what?" "I don't know. Maybe what it would be like again to strap on a helmet, oxygen mask, and G-suit and go bore holes in the sky like those guys." I pointed up at the wispy contrails. "How do you know they're guys? They have female Naval Aviators, now," she deadpanned. "Perhaps you'll be recalled." I smiled and refilled our wine glasses. We resumed our silence. Night had fallen, but we continued to sit in the pleasance of darkness, a mild ocean breeze, and twinkling lights that stretched as far as we could see from San Diego to the south and to Oceanside to the north. Despite my best efforts, I started to think about the past and how I had traded pants for dresses. When did my feminine persona really begin? What were its roots? I wasn't sure. My earliest remembrance as a child is sitting on my mother's lap in the kitchen of our San Francisco apartment when I was three or so. The scene is indelibly inscribed in my memory because in it, I am wearing a red pinafore dress with white sox and black patent buckle shoes. There is a ribbon in my curly, blond hair and I have red polish on my fingernails. Was this early display of transvestism my idea or my mother's? I sip my wine, enjoy the darkness, and take comfort in the holding of Madeline's hand. As I do so, another scene from my childhood flashes by from a hidden cranny in my memory. In this one, Joe Moore, a playmate from across the street, and I out of idle curiosity, explore my mother's lingerie drawer on a summer afternoon and don panties, bras, and slips. We run about the shade-drawn apartment and have a grand time. I was about ten years old. From this moment on, though, I am hooked on full- length slips, lavished in lace. In fact to this day, whenever Madeline is stuck as to what to get me for a birthday or whatever, she usually opts for a luxurious slip or chemise. I am never disappointed. Madeline is a very sensual woman. She enjoys physical expressions of endearment and we have always had a very active sex life. I wasn't sure what sex would be like after my surgery, but to my delight, I find it satisfying. Across the years, Madeline instructed me on the use of vibrators, dildos, "G" spots, erogenous zones, and oral sex. Suffice it to say, each of us knows which buttons to press when we make love. In the Miramar darkness, Madeline senses my turn on and leans across to me. Without a word, we kiss each other full on the mouths, exchange competing lipstick tastes, and our tongues play tag with one another. Each of us instinctively feels for the other's breasts. Four nipples go taut. Soon we are petting hot and heavy and both of us are ready. I don't want the evening on the lanai to end yet, so I call a truce. We break off. Madeline smiles that impish grin that attracted me to her in the first place. We both lapse into contented silence. It goes unsaid that once we hit our bedroom, a long bout of lovemaking will ensue. But first, I have a trip through the portals of my past. CHAPTER 1: AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN My reverie begins as I try to puzzle out the how and why of my journey from manhood to womanhood. In retrospect, I really didn't cross dress that much in high school or college. The opportunity wasn't there. Infrequently, when I really felt the need and my sister was away at a friend's house, I would put on one of her outfits complete with under garments and prance around an empty apartment. Not for long, I might add. Invariably, all that soft and delicate fabric rubbing against me would produce an erection that was all too soon followed by an uncommanded ejaculation. The first time it happened I was caught so off guard that I made a mess in her panties. Trying desperately to get her dress and slip up and her panties down between a garter belt and high-top hose to free my penis before climax was too much for me. Until I started cross dressing full time, this premature excitability was always a problem for me. Somewhere in my junior year in college, I fell in love with the romance of flight, specifically, I wanted to be a Navy pilot. Why? I don't know. Maybe it was because of the strong Navy presence in the Bay Area, especially, Alameda Naval Air Station. Anyway, after graduation with a degree in Liberal Arts, I plowed my way through a battery of tests and was accepted as an Aviation Officer Candidate. Then I was on my way to Pensacola for Pre-Flight training. Primary was next at Saufley Field. Then came Basic at Whiting and Carrier Qualification back at Saufley. Because I was a good stick-and-rudder guy, flight grades were not a problem, and I was one of a select few in my class to qualify for jets. For my finale, I was off to Texas for Advanced. Eighteen months after I began, I was designated a Naval Aviator and sent to a Replacement Air Group at Naval Air Station Miramar in Southern California to learn to be a F-8 "Crusader" pilot. The year was 1964 and I was 23 years old. 1964 was a hell-of-a year. This was when the old order of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s dissolved and a massive generational change hit America. Free speech, love, and pot were in. So were long hair, granny glasses, and funky clothes. Crew cuts, Joe College togs, and respect for authority were out. The Beatles, not Britannia, ruled the airwaves. In the midst of all this, I became a Navy fighter pilot. After four months in replacement training that included familiarization, formation, gunnery, and air combat maneuvering, radar intercepts, in-flight refueling, and day and night (shudder) carrier landings, I was sent to an operational fleet fighter squadron, VF-77, "The Rat Pack." Needless to say, the Navy was not a conducive atmosphere in which to cross dress. For almost two years, I had gone without slipping into something soft, slinky, and feminine. I knew I was overdue to cater to my softer side, so I took a week's leave before reporting aboard to my new squadron and hightailed it home to San Francisco. My sister was currently working for the State Department in England, and I had a hunch she hadn't taken all of her clothes with her. She hadn't. At my earliest opportunity, I raided her closet and drawers. For five glorious days and nights I played dress up in a wide variety of lingerie, nighties, sweaters, skirts, blouses, and dresses. I had no experience with makeup so I shied away from that. I didn't have a wig either, so the best I could do was fashion a scarf around my head into something I thought was stylish. On four of my five nights, I ventured out solo in guy clothes to a famous drag club in North Beach to catch their show. I had to be careful. From my second night on, other regulars started to make passes at me. On my last night at home, I started to slip into one of my sister's nightgowns, as was my routine after my mother had gone to bed. Only, she surprised me by coming in to say goodnight after I thought she was asleep. Caught in the act, there I was in pink panties (my favorite color) with my arms extended over my head and about to don a full-length- Empire-waist gown of matching shade when the door quietly opened and my mother came in. It was a tie as to who was more surprised. "Oh!" she said. "Oh, Yeah!" I replied. A long silence hung over us both. We eyed each other. Her gown was yellow. "I'll say one thing, dear. Pink looks good on you." "Thanks, mom." "Maybe we'd better sit down and have a little talk," she suggested. "Sure." We sat down on the edge of the bed. Almost as if on cue, we each fidgeted and smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in our sleeping wear. She took my hands in hers. "This isn't the first time I've seen you in female clothes, you know," she began. "When you were a small child, I used to dress you as a little girl until your uncles made me stop. You would have been about four or five then. Do you remember?" "Only vaguely. Whose idea was it?" "I'm not sure, Andy, darling. You certainly had a predilection for female things. Perhaps I was trying to humor you. I well remember how you cried and cried when I stopped. We all assumed that you would get over it." "I guess I didn't, huh, mom?" She smiled sadly and then asked gently, "Would you like to be a woman?" "I think so?at least when I wear women's clothes I feel that way. Most of the time I'm too busy to think about it, particularly now that I'm in the Navy. It's something I control fairly well." "You're not attracted to boys are you?" "I'm not sure. It gets a little confusing when I dress en femme. I fantasize a lot." "I don't want you to get hurt, dear. Please be careful." "I will, mom. Don't worry." She patted my hands and said, "You'd better go to sleep, dear. Tomorrow's going to be a long day." With that, she kissed me. I could tell that she was crying. We hugged each other. "I love you, mom." "I love you too, dear. And whatever you decide is okay with me." "Goodnight, mom." "Goodnight, son." The next day, I departed for Miramar and my new life with the "The Rat Pack." Before I left, my mother gave me a small, scarf-wrapped parcel to take with me. As she handed it to me, she winked, and said, "Just in case dear." I threw it in my B-4 bag. Later when I opened it, I found it contained my sister's nightie and panties from the night before, freshly laundered, and a sexy bra. Like most Navy squadrons of that era, VF-77 was loaded with guys who drank a lot, smoked too much, chased women, and took pride in their airmanship. Although I wasn't big on the smoking and drinking aspects of squadron social life, and had some confusion with regard to my masculinity, my flying skills more than compensated for the former. I was soon accepted as a "Rat" albeit a quiet one. The squadron, recently activated, was preparing for a Western Pacific (West Pac) deployment, and our daily routine was pretty standard. Usually during the week, I'd fly one training flight in the morning and one in the afternoon. Weekends were normally free. Friday and Saturday nights were spent at parties or bar hopping, the purpose of which was to get laid. I never did, although I would pretend that I did and join in the ready room discussions on the following Monday with the other pilots about how I had porked some broad with big tits that I had just picked up. And then I met Madeline? It was a few months before we were ready to embark for a six-month carrier cruise aboard USS SHILOH (CVA-35) to West Pac. The tragedy known as Vietnam was just starting to unfold. "The Rat Pack" would be there at the beginning. In typical weekend fashion, the squadron was over at a squadron mate's house on a Saturday evening, getting drunk and horny, and talking flying. It was all very macho with lots of braggadocio. In the midst of all the boasting and swaggering, one new girl stood out. She obviously didn't belong there. A friend of a friend, she had obviously made a mistake in accepting an invitation to this gaggle. She looked bored and pissed off. I was immediately attracted to her, one outsider to another. I sauntered over to her as casually as I could. For lack of anything better, I said, "Hi! You don't look like you're having a lot of fun." "You got that right, sailor. Can you get me the fuck out of here? The bullshit is ankle deep." "Let's go," I hastily replied. And off we went. She told me she lived in San Diego and we headed that way. My attempts at small talk got me nowhere. As we got closer to the city, she occasionally gave me curt directions. By the time we arrived at her address, I was resigned to having flamed out. You can imagine my surprise when as I stopped the car she turned to face me and asked, "Do you want to come in?" Boy did I ever although I wasn't sure why! Once inside her small apartment, she didn't ask me what I wanted to drink. She just made coffee. As she served it, I sensed that a lot of her hostility had waned. We said nothing as we looked at each other. I liked what I saw. She was tall, slender, attractive as opposed to beautiful, and conveyed an artistic air. I made the immediate judgment that she read a lot. I soon found out what she thought of me. "You're different," she remarked. "I'm a 'Rat'." "But you're not a member of the 'Pack'," she observed. And I really wasn't despite how much I enjoyed the flying. We began to talk. I found out that she was a Drama Major who liked to draw and paint. She found out I that I was an English Literature Major who liked to play Berlin, Gershwin, and Porter tunes on the piano. Our talk continued. It turned out that politically, we were both Roosevelt New Dealers from a bygone era. Pretty soon we were telling each other confidences that you don't normally reveal to strangers. About three or four hours later we ended up in bed together. It was my first time with a woman and I was rather clumsy. She was patient. In between our couplings, intimate revelations were exchanged. Although I didn't come right out and say it, I hinted at my liking for all things feminine and told her how I had dressed up as a little girl when I was very young. She found that amusing and said, "More men should wear pinafores and ribbons in their hair when they're growing up. Maybe that way later on, they wouldn't be such pigs." If you only knew, I thought as I mounted her and we went at it again. Her patience paid off handsomely. CHAPTER 2: OUT OF THE CLOSET With less than 30 days to go before deployment, everything in my life was happening at a quickened pace. By day I flew or attended briefings or lectures. At night I was always with Madeline. In fact, I had moved my gear out of the BOQ (Bachelor Officers Quarters) and into her apartment. She made room for my things in one of her dressers and I made myself at home. I didn't know how much at home until I returned one afternoon after an early secure. We were planning to barbeque steaks on the patio and drink some mellow Chianti. As soon as I walked in the door, I detected something different. Madeline was a little too polite or perhaps too clever, I wasn't sure which. I tried to figure it out but couldn't. We went through the motions of having a pleasant cookout supper. Both of us were glad when it was over. It was merely a prelude to something else. That's when she told me she had a surprise for me. She left the table to get it. I swirled the after-dinner scotch idly in my glass and wondered what it was. I shortly found out. With a soft "plop," Madeline dropped a familiar looking parcel in front of me, only the scarf was no longer tied, and a trio of matching pink panties, bra, and nightgown were arrayed before me. She victoriously crossed her arms and stood before me. Her stance said it all, "Gottcha." "I've got a pretty good idea, but go ahead and try to explain," she commanded. "And by the way, a Chanel scarf wrapped around women's underwear among my boyfriend's clothing invariably catches my attention." My face was beet red. Admittedly, I wasn't much of an ass-kicking male, but heretofore, only my mother knew of my cross-dressing. Zap! I had been "outed." The best response that I could muster under the circumstances was, "You're not going to believe this." "Try me," she challenged. "OK, I will," I sighed. "These are mine; well actually, they belong to my sister. I borrowed them from her without her knowledge. From time to time, I feel a need to wear women's clothes. I tried to give you a heads up the first night we met and I told you I used to dress in pinafores, ribbons, and 'Mary Janes' as a toddler. Does this make any sense?" "Maybe." A little of the sarcasm was out of her voice. "Then what do you do?" "What do you mean?" I wasn't sure where she was taking the conversation. "You know. After you slip into these little delicates, then what? Do you jack off?" "Yes." "Show me." "Come on," I pleaded. "Don't rub it in." "Oh, no. You don't get off the hook that easy. You're going to perform your little charade for me." With that she picked up the underclothes and opened the patio door. "Into the bedroom, sweetie, unless you'd prefer to change out here and do your thing. I'm sure that our neighbors would enjoy the show." Resigned to my fate, I preceded her into the bedroom. She left me standing in the center and sat down at her vanity table with the chair turned towards me like a spectator at a stage show. Mischievousness was spread all over her face. "Start stripping," she ordered. Reluctantly, I did. When I was completely naked, she tossed me the high- cut-nylon panties and I stepped into them. The bra came flying at me next. Much to her delight and giggling, I expertly strapped it on. "Hey!" she exclaimed. "Cinderella needs some tits." Out of seemingly nowhere, she filled my bra cups with some hose. With great fanfare, she handed me the nightgown as she dramatically intoned, "Ta Da!" I shrugged, held it above my head, kneaded my arms through the sleeves and shoulders, and let it fall into place. In spite of my best efforts to the contrary, I could feel the beginning of an erection in the making. A slip, chemise, or nightgown would forever be my Achilles heel. My penis started to gorge and quickly came to full mast. I never felt so vulnerable in my life as my most intimate feelings had just been exposed. "Now what?" I asked. "Finish the job." "I need a towel." "No problem." She got one from the bathroom and handed it to me. I lay down on her bed on my back, hiked the gown up over my bra to expose my belly, and pulled my panties down and off. The towel was within easy reach. Then with my panties clutched in my left hand and my penis in my right, I began to masturbate. "Are you fantasizing that you're a woman having sex?" "Yes." "What kind of a guy is screwing you?" "A big stud, bald, muscular, lots of body hair, and a bushy mustache. All the things I'm not." "Why do you hold on to your panties?" "I don't know. Maybe I pretend that I'm in the backseat of a guy's car, and he's balling me, and it's dark, and I don't want to lose them. I'm not sure. It's part of my ritual." I continued to stroke my penis. I was amazed at how long I'd gone without climax. My femme side must include a "showgirl" somewhere. I kept on stroking, and snuck a peek at Madeline. She was fidgeting in her seat, and viewing me with rapt interest. I suspected that it was a turn-on for her. "How many times have you done this since you began to date me?" "I haven't." "Don't ever let me catch you," she warned. "You won't." I delivered a few more strokes; then, I erupted. The show was over. I reached for the towel and began to clean up. Madeline began to clap. "Bravo!" she cried. "That was quite a performance." She was smiling broadly. "Thank you. I'd like you to know it was my first and last public one." "We'll see," Madeline said as she handed me a powder-blue bathrobe. "Here, slip this on. You don't want to catch cold. I think it's time for some girl talk." We tromped off to the kitchen. Over coffee, I bared what little was left of my soul. "Now, what?" I asked. "Do you dump me?" "No way. I think you and I can have the best of both worlds." "What do you mean?' "Well, you can be my boyfriend and my girlfriend. There are advantages to each, and we'll exploit the best of both. It will take some adjustment in our life style, but if you can handle it, I know I can. Besides, you're the one who will be switching back and forth. A fearless Naval Officer by day, and a compliant, negligee-wearing roommate by night." "You're serious, aren't you?" I asked. "Absolutely." "You won't make fun of me?" "No. Why should I?" "Because it's not normal." "What's normal? Besides, I like the idea of having a male that I can control. It's every woman's dream. Oh, I can hardly wait to see you in a silk blouse and a mini skirt. You'll be 'My Fair Lady.' Now let's go to bed." We did. Our foreplay was much longer than usual. Madeline took the initiative and guided my hands and lips to heretofore unexplored regions of her body. When it was time, by unspoken agreement, she climbed on top of me, inserted my shaft, and slowly slid down it to the hilt. As she bobbed her pelvis up and down on it, we French-kissed, and I played with her boobs and wished that they were mine. In a flurry of movements and groans of ecstasy, we both came simultaneously. Exhausted and slippery with sweat, she collapsed on my chest. I stared at what was to be my first of many ceilings to come. Later, after we had showered together and powered our bodies, we jumped into sensuous nightgowns sans panties (just in case), and fell asleep on our sides in a matching fetal position, she in front of me with each of my arms wrapped around her waist. I couldn't have been happier. It was short lived, however. CHAPTER 3: YANKEE STATION All too soon, Navy Fighter Squadron 77 embarked aboard USS SHILOH (CVA 35) and began its scheduled cruise in the Western Pacific. Scuttlebutt (gossip) had it that we were headed for the Gulf of Tonkin in Southeast Asia. Most of us didn't know or care where that was. President Lyndon Johnson did, however. By Executive Order, SHILOH with VF-77 aboard would soon assume a position 100 miles off the Indo-China coast at 16 degrees North latitude and 110 degrees East longitude. For the next nine years, carrier pilots would refer to it as "Yankee Station." It would be the best of times and the worst of times for "The Rat Pack." Madeline didn't come pier side to see me off. We had made our goodbyes quietly and tearfully at her apartment the night before. Just before liberty expired at midnight, I walked up SHILOH's gangplank and requested permission "to come aboard." It was granted and as the hymn goes, I silently bid "farewell to college joys," Madeline, and feminine finery, at least for the duration of the cruise. My only reminder of my other life was a desktop-framed picture of Madeline and me which I displayed whenever possible. It was taken at the San Diego Zoo a few days before I sailed. Maddie is in disguise, namely, a shoulder-length, black wig and hippy- style clothes. I am en femme, also wearing a shoulder-length wig, a light auburn with bangs cut, a blouse-sweater-and-skirt combination, flats, makeup, and earrings. Additionally, I affect large Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses. Why not? Madeline has bestowed the alter name of Tiffany on me. Besides, the glasses make for excellent camouflage. Probably only my mother might detect that the taller of the two smiling, slim girls in the photograph was Lieutenant Junior Grade Andrew Crewson, USNR, an officer, a gentleman, a fighter pilot, and a transvestite. Anchors Away! My first peacetime West Pac deployment quickly turned into a combat cruise. After departing San Diego with brief stops in Hawaii and Yokusuka, Japan, SHILOH took a position with two other carriers on Yankee Station in late February 1965. We were just in time for the start of Operation Rolling Thunder, the aerial bombardment of North Vietnam by US Air Force and Navy aircraft from March 1965 to November 1968. As a fighter pilot, my job was to protect the strike force from enemy aircraft and enemy air defenses. Over the next seven months, I flew more missions over North Vietnam than I care to remember. MiG sightings were few and far between. I saw a lot of the enemy's air defenses, though, from small arms fire to various calibers of anti-aircraft artillery (triple A) to surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). Each mission, the North Vietnamese (NVA) air defense coverage seemed to be better coordinated and more intense. The United States was waging a strange air campaign. The odds were not in our favor. My first MiG encounter was in June of that year three months after our arrival on Yankee Station. While flying as a wingman in a two-plane flight on a routine combat air patrol, we were vectored in pursuit of a distant bogey but never got close. It was the briefest of encounters and I only saw it as a blip on my radarscope. Before we could close to missile range, we had to break it off because the MiG took sanctuary in China. Two months later, though, in August 1965 and just before we departed Yankee Station for our return transit to San Diego, I saw my first MiG, eyeball to eyeball. Again, I was a wingman in a two-plane flight. This time we were escorting an attack mission on a bridge south of Haiphong when a flight of four bandits jumped us. They made a high-speed pass through the attack formation. Typically, whenever they did, they kept on going balls to the wall. They never seemed eager to reattack. This time they did. The fight was on and it was short and sweet. My section leader never got into the right kill position and came out of the engagement empty handed. Through luck more than anything else, I did. My first sidewinder missile missed because I shot it prematurely and was not in range. My second missile shot was near perfect. Everything was lined up and I had good audio tone. I saw it strike. There was a big fireball and no chute. Scratch one North Vietnamese MiG-17. Not too shabby for a nugget on his first combat deployment. I became one of the first Navy MIG Killers of a long, long war. Two days later we left Yankee Station for Subic Bay in the Philippines on the first leg of our homeward journey. Suffice it to say, that I, a 1960s-Ed-Wood-wannabe, had struck gold. Most Naval Aviators would give one of their nuts to nail a MIG. I had done so with seemingly minor effort and was the toast of the Air Group. All of a sudden, I was everybody's friend and human tape recorder. The old adage from Lefty Gomez of the 1939 Yankees was true: " I'd rather be lucky than good." A Silver Star awarded to me on behalf of my actions in the best interests of the Naval Service was in the offing. This along with seven Air Medals swelled my chest just below my "Wings of Gold." As an aside, I would later give both my nuts, not for another MiG, but for another cause, a la Christine Jorgensen. At the end of December 1965, SHILOH returned to its homeport at Naval Air Station North Island (San Diego), VF-77 breezed into Naval Air Station Miramar, and after nearly an eight-month absence, I was reunited with Madeline. In less than twenty-four hours, a Justice of the Peace married us in Las Vegas. CHAPTER 4: HELLO TIFFANY! So, I began a new life as a husband. At first, our marriage was quite traditional, but gradually, my impulse to cross dress began anew. Madeline neither encouraged nor discouraged me as I fought my inner battle, although she knew a war was in progress. Eventually I surrendered unconditionally to these urges. It was too much for me to be surrounded by all the sights, smells, and trappings of femininity. Every time I opened our closet I was greeted by her wardrobe, which took up more than half. Her vanity table, laden with all the necessary makeup tools and ingredients, was another object of my attention. It was hard to miss. So too were her panties or hose which were frequently drying on the shower curtain bar in the bathroom. As for her lingerie drawer, I couldn't walk past it without sneaking a peak. All that soft, lacy, and colorful finery took possession of my soul. I felt akin to an alcoholic attempting to dry out in a room full of heavy drinkers. I also realized that cross-dressing was like flying, i.e., the more you did, the more you wanted to do. Conversely, the less you did, the less you wanted to do, although the basic urge never went away entirely. It was always there like a cancer that would go into remission and then inexplicably return. Finally, one night I accepted my fate. While Madeline was washing her face after removing her makeup, I eased into a pair of her panties and one of her luxurious nightgowns, jumped into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chin. Unsuspecting, Madeline lay down, settled in, reached over to grope me, as was her custom, and immediately came to grips with an enormous erection encased in nylon. "Welcome home, Tiffany," was all she said as she pulled my nightgown up and panties down, took my throbbing penis in her mouth, and began a series of oral ministrations, which produced a torrential climax on my part. Payback was next as she maneuvered my head face down on her privates and held it there for what seemed like hours as she gently undulated her pelvic area. I let my tongue and imagination run wild. She began to emit moans of delight. This was followed by multiple orgasms as her body shuddered uncontrollably. Our sex life had never been better! Every night thereafter, I wore a nightgown to bed. Madeline didn't say a word. She smiled ruefully as if it were inevitable. Next, I started to wear panties under my civilian clothing; then a camisole; later a bra. A garter belt and hi-top hose came next. My progression continued. My favorite lounge attire at home consisted of a mini-skirt and a baggy Squadron T- shirt under which I wore panties and a bra. Without being asked, Madeline purchased a pair of foam-rubber-prosthesis breasts, and soon I was sporting a set of 38B jugs complete with false nipples. Whenever we watched TV together, we felt each other up during the commercials. In between petting sessions one night on the living-room couch, I asked her what she saw in me. "A guy with a soft side," she replied. "I much prefer that to a wife-beating-beer-guzzling-pot-bellied slob." "Do you hate men?" I asked. "No. I tolerate them." "How about me?" "You're obviously an exception." "Did you ever have an affair with a woman?" "Do you mean did I ever have sex with a woman?" "Yes." "Sure. Once I hit puberty, all those hormones got the better of me. Everyone thinks that guys are horny. Believe me, so are girls. Melissa, one of my closest girl friends, and I experimented with kissing one afternoon when we were alone. That led to fondling while fully dressed and then to fooling around with each other in just our panties and bras. In a matter of time, we were jaybird naked and crawling all over each other rubbing boobs and snatches. That was my first of many girl-to-girl orgasms. The best part was that you didn't have to worry about getting pregnant or hearing through the grapevine at school how you had put out for some dumb jock. "Any hang-ups about this girl-to-girl stuff," I asked. "Absolutely none. I feel sorry for you guys. You have to be so macho all the time. You can't be 'touchy-feely' or cry or be vulnerable like girls can. But, hey, tell me about your first time." "Well, the icebreaker," I began, "was when I went to Boy Scout camp for the first time during summer vacation. I was probably 12 years old and had never had a sexual experience, although I was just starting to become aware of my sexuality. Because I was the youngest as well as the smallest kid in my troop, I was on the receiving end of a lot of horseplay. One day after lunch we were on what was called 'admin' time. That was a fancy name for unsupervised activity. It meant the leaders or instructors were off somewhere and we were on their own. Naturally, this was an opportunity to start "grab-assing" around and someone would get singled out for special treatment. On this particular day, I was the victim and in short order, I was spread eagle on our cabin floor and held down by eight or so fellow scouts. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, they had stripped all my clothing off. First, they tried giving me a 'pink belly.' That's where they slap your stomach softly but repeatedly until it hurts. After a while, however, they tired of that. Then, they tickled my nose and ribs with a feather. I suppose I didn't respond with enough discomfort to please them because the next thing I knew, they took my scout neckerchief, blindfolded me, and began to tease my penis with the feather. It was only a matter of time before it was rock hard. That brought on all sorts of jeers and comments. Then one of my assailants slipped my neckerchief knot over my penis and began to slide it up and down to the amusement of everyone. Needless to say, I ejaculated. They cheered. Then they left me to clean up my mess." "Aw, that was mean," Madeline said. "Yeah, it was, but I wasn't as humiliated as you would expect." "Why not?" "I don't know. I know this sounds strange, but I liked the feeling of being made to do something against my will that I really had wanted to do myself but because of religious beliefs couldn't. Also, and I know this sounds even more strange, but I enjoyed being naked, vulnerable, and submissive. I liked being looked at. It's a great feeling, almost as if I had power over them. They wanted to see me have an orgasm more than I wanted to have one. And I wasn't hurt. Am I making any sense?" "A lot. Why do you think women wear short skirts and see-through blouses? They want to be looked at. At some point, all women have fantasies of muscular warriors, handsome rogues or whatever kidnapping and carrying them back to exotic lairs where they are made to submit to the male's dominance. Women's lib aside, a woman wants to be swept off her feet. That's why romance fiction is so popular." Madeline paused and then quickly asked, "What happened next?" "As you might expect," I continued, "I began to masturbate. Even after my camp experience, it still took a long time for me to build up the resolve to do it, though. I was raised a Catholic, and the Church claims that it's a sin to perform self-gratification. One night, I was especially aroused and instead of stopping as I usually did whenever I had an erection, this time I lay belly down on the bed with my penis sandwiched between my stomach and the mattress. Then I began to push forward and back so that there was friction between the two surfaces. Nothing happened at first and I was about to call it quits when nature took its course. I started to experience these incredibly pleasant sensations followed by orgasm. This time, I had crossed the line by myself and jacked off. Up until I met you, that's all I ever did." "How often?" "A lot. And because of the Catholic Church, I always felt guilty." I turned to face Madeline and asked, "How about you? Did you feel guilty when you and Melissa were getting it off together?" "Not at all. We had a grand time." "When was the first time you slept with a guy?' "In college. I never had a steady, but I was anxious to find out if all the hype about getting laid was true, so one night I made sure not to wear a girdle, and I pretended to let my date sweep me off my feet. I balled him in the front seat of a 1938 Chevy. He wasn't very expert. Despite his swagger, I was probably his first lay. I had teased him mercilessly throughout the evening. Lots of hand holding, slow dancing, whispering in his ear, the whole bit. Then we parked on a lookout near Point Vista. I let him unbutton my blouse and take my bra off. The poor kid was panting so hard I felt sorry for him. After a while I guided his hand down toward my panties. He was really excited now. To help him out, I placed his hand over my clitoris. I don't think he knew what it was. For fun, I reached over and squeezed his hard-on. He flinched and started to deep kiss me. I broke away from his lip-lock and asked him if he had a rubber. He didn't. I did, and I slipped it on him. Then I let him mount me. I had to insert his penis. On his own, I don't think he ever would have found the mark. And let me tell you, the front seat of a floor-shift car is not the most romantic place in the world to relinquish your virginity. It went pretty much as I thought it would. After two or three strokes, my Lothario shot his load. I didn't see stars or hear bells ringing. We cleaned up; I rearranged my clothes and stuffed my bra in my purse. Then he took me home. I never went out with him again." "That didn't sound like a lot of fun," I said. "It wasn't. What was fun though, was being in control. I like that. Men believe that women are the weaker of the sexes, but that's a myth due to male conceit. When you have a pussy, you have real power. Unbeknownst to most men, the sex act itself is a great equalizer between the sexes. In fact, it's clearly weighted in the woman's favor. She can have multiple orgasms while the poor, muscle-bound Hercules is limited to one, and usually a quickie at that." Silently, I agreed with her. More and more, I felt my maleness being subjugated by my desire for femaleness. It was confusing. With my forefinger, I began to delicately explore her mound. How I envied her. "You've got the right touch, Tiffany, a girl's touch." She started to wiggle in response to my explorations. In return, she went for my cock. In a matter of seconds, our skirts were coming up and our panties down. Like fledging acrobats, we were forever experimenting with new positions. This time, she had climbed on my lap with her legs wrapped around my waist in a vise-like grip with my penis deep inside her. We began to rock to and fro. She was moaning softly. I couldn't get enough of her. We both came together. It was glorious. Too glorious! There was that little matter of the war in Southeast Asia. SHILOH and "The Rat Pack" had to go back out. Before I went, however, Madeline and I decided on one more public outing together with me en femme. We had made several carefully selected forays with me dressed as Tiffany to shopping malls, movies, the San Diego Zoo, and restaurants. Invariably, we dressed down, i.e., nothing provocative, flashy or hot. I always wore a long-sleeved-collarless dress, minimum makeup (foundation, blush, eyebrow shadow, and lipstick, of course), and jewelry (gold necklace, clip-on pearl earrings in a gold setting, and a matching pearl ring) flats, a seven-eights coat or straight-line jacket, my Audrey Hepburn shades, and my trusty shoulder-length wig. Sometimes, I favored a headband. Underneath my mousy exterior fa?ade howsoever, lurked a vintage tramp. My intimates were a combination of satin, nylon, lace, miniature rosebuds, tiny bows, and other frills. My slightest movement produced swish and rustle sounds that sent electric shocks up my spine. It was slippery to sit and loads of fun. I was constantly crossing and uncrossing my legs and guarding against dress creep. I loved the sensation of hose rubbing against hose and the feminine mannerisms of making sure that my slip wasn't showing or tugging at my bra band or realigning loose straps. Madeline got a kick out of watching me discover girl things. Applying or refreshing my lipstick from a bullet tube was my favorite. She said that I was an apt student, but she was also a good teacher. Before she let me go out in public as Tiffany, she had put me through a female "boot camp." I had to walk, stand, sit, retrieve dropped objects, climb in and out of an imaginary car as both a passenger and as a driver in a female manner. At first, my attempts were awkward, exaggerated, and downright campy. Gradually, though, my female role-playing assumed a life of its own and with practice, I could exhibit convincing female movements, gestures, and body language. My voice tone was a problem, initially, and we spent a lot of time on that. Madeline had a great ear for pitch and eventually had me speaking in a reasonable feminine sound. At least, that's what she said. It didn't sound right to me, but I went with her judgment and it seemed to work. I was never challenged in person. Occasionally on the telephone, a clerk or dispatcher or whatever would respond "yes, sir" if I didn't identify myself in the beginning as "Miss." Once I corrected that person, then he or she would be most apologetic, but the damage had been done, and it would take me time to restore my confidence. It took me years to perfect, but I'm jumping ahead of myself. To cover our tracks even more on our outings, Madeline would hide her tawny-blond tresses under a black wig plus alter her normal clothing colors and makeup style. Our intent was that friends or acquaintances would not recognize either her or me. We were successful beyond my wildest dreams. CHAPTER 5: DINNER IN CORONADO On our last girls-only escapade before I sailed on my second combat cruise, we got into a rather tenuous situation. Foolishly, we ventured into a Mexican restaurant on Coronado that was a hang out for the Navy pilots from Miramar. We went in the late afternoon and thought we would beat the crowd. We almost did. After taking a secluded booth, ordering food and Margaritas, and engaging in innocuous chitchat, I heard a couple of familiar voices from the bar area. One was Mike Riordan; the other was Charlie Parker. Both were new to the squadron, replacement pilots recently trained for our upcoming cruise. It would be their first. My initial reaction was to bolt and to forget about the food and drinks we had just ordered. Madeline counseled restraint. Her view, which prevailed, was that our abrupt departure might cause uninvited attention to us because of waitress and bill complications. She reached across the table and patted my false-fingernail varnished hands. I was on the verge of voiding in my panties. All I could think about was a courts-martial for conduct unbecoming an officer. Madeline was grinning. She liked to push the envelope as we say (fighter-pilot jargon). "Hang in there, Tiffany," she said soothingly. I did. The Margarita helped. So did the fact that our booth was not visible from the bar. There was no reason for Riordan or Parker to come into the nearly deserted dinning area since they could order food at the bar. I relaxed further and began to enjoy my Chile Rellanos. Then I heard "Hey, Charlie. Look what I found." The voice was loud, drunk, and belonged to Mike Riordan. The next thing I knew Mike was plopping down beside me and across from Madeline. I scooted over to the wall to put distance between us, but I was trapped. I was afraid to look at him. Instead, I looked to Madeline for help. She was caught as off guard as I and was speechless. That was a first. "Hey, babe," Mike said to the table more than to either of us. He was that drunk. We said nothing. "How about letting a Navy Fighter Pilot buy you chicks a drink?' He reeked of beer, his eyes were red, and his voice was slurred. And his hands roamed. One of them was on my thigh; the other was fumbling for a cigarette. I squirmed. Madeline was stifling a smile. "What's the matter, cutie, you don't like fighter pilots?" He was talking directly to me, now. I was afraid either to look at him or to answer. In desperation, I shook my head. "That's your loss, sweetie, not mine. I could show you a good time." He had trouble getting the words out. He was that far gone. "And what's with this Veronica Lake peek-a-boo bullshit? Let me see your face." I was petrified with fear and as a last resort, turned to face the wall and put both of hands up to cover even the back of my head as I twisted around in the booth. It was not enough. He wrenched me around with drunken force, if not coordination. The front upper part of my dress ripped and momentarily the three of us were looking at the lace bodice of my slip. It was a defining moment to say the least. Then all hell broke loose. As drunk as he was, Mike knew he had gone to far. About the time he was sputtering, "Oh, shit, I'm sorry," Madeline reached across the table and hit him in the nose with a short punch. Two waitresses came running over with round trays that they were prepared to use as battering rams on him or as shields for us depending upon how the battle went. The first one hissed, "Get out of here, you prick." The second one yelled to the bartender, "Miguel, give us a hand." Mike's buddy, Charlie Parker, considerably less drunk and who heretofore had been missing in action, appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Mike, pulled him to his feet, and hurried him out a side door. Charlie reappeared shortly to apologize profusely to Madeline and me, the waitresses, the bartender, and everyone in general. Further turning on the charm, he placed a $20 bill on the table and said, "We're really sorry. The dinner is on us. Let Miguel know how much we owe you for a new dress in the next day or so. We'll leave the money with him." He followed this up with an embarrassed smile and a goodbye hand wave. Then he was out the door too. "Are you OK, Hon?" the first waitress to our rescue asked. Her nametag said Rosa. She was buxom and in her thirties pushing forty. She would have made mincemeat out of Mike. I was afraid to answer so I gamely nodded my head. The other waitress who also looked like she could hold her own, said, "Oh you poor thing. Let me help you." Her nametag said Isabel. Magically she produced two bobby pins from her hair and pinned the front of my dress so that I was decent. "Thank you," I managed in my best falsetto voice barely above a whisper. I was afraid to look her in the eye and I could only hope that my wig had not gone askew. "It's nothing, dear. I'm glad that I could help. We girls have to look out for each other." Rosa chipped in, "Those fucking Navy pilots from Miramar think that they are God's gift to women. Piss on them." Ah, sisterhood! Madeline engaged Rosa and Isabel in small talk as she paid the bill and we made our departure. I felt about as inconspicuous as an elephant in a living room, but I brazened it out. Exercising my best femme posture, we made our exit. This was not the time to screw up and apparently I didn't. Once inside the car, though, the enormity of what had just happened hit me full force. "Holy Shit, Madeline," I exclaimed. "That could have been a disaster. What if my wig had come off? What if someone had recognized me? What if the cops had been called?" I was shaking. "What?" Madeline cut me off. "Enough of this 'what if' bullshit," she said. "It didn't happen and you got a first-hand look at what it's like to be a girl. It's not all chocolates and flowers. It can be demeaning and even dangerous. Let this be a lesson to you, sweetheart. Never let your guard down." She leaned across and kissed me on the lips. "By the way, I was proud of you back there," she continued. You held up well. Now, I think it's time to go home." We did. When we got there, it was a rush to get into the sack. Neither of us bothered to take our makeup off. Our hands and lips were all over each other. We pawed each other hungrily and wrestled from one end of the bed to the other. Soon we were both soaked in sweat and smeared makeup. Our perfume and body powder fragrances intermingled pleasantly into something not quite the other. Without penetration, she came first. Her shaking reminded me of the onset of buffet on an airfoil about to stall. I had never heard her moan so much. It made me all the hotter. I knew I was about to ejaculate prematurely, and it was going to be messy. Intuitively, she sensed my impending climax and with deftness twisted her body so that she could take my penis in her mouth. As soon as she did, I was off. She stayed engaged and swallowed and swallowed until I was completely spent. Then we both collapsed side by side. It was as if two Roman gladiators had fought to exhaustion and neither could gain an advantage. Bread and Circuses! Youth was on our side, though, and we began to recharge. She began to finger randomly my chest while I traced lazy eights on her lower stomach with mine. "Maddy, I've got a question." "So ask." "Why do you swallow?" "It's a girl thing, cutie. You'll find out." I wasn't sure what she meant by that, and I was afraid to find out. Later, I would. CHAPTER 6: THE GULF OF TONKIN Once again, I found myself at Carrier Pier boarding a warship for combat duty in the Western Pacific. It was in the fall of 1966. So long to Madeline, San Diego, Maiden Form bras, Frederick's of Hollywood panties, mini skirts, bubble baths, and my hidden life. Hello to "YANKEE STATION," shipboard showers, Olongopo, San Miguel beer, enemy anti- aircraft artillery (triple "A") and Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMS), and I hoped, a MiG or two. Lieutenant Junior grade Andrew Crewson, also known as Tiffany, an officer, a gentleman, a husband, a MiG killer, and a cross dresser was off to war. This time, though, instead of a single snapshot of me in drag, I had several photos of myself in female garb affecting various poses at home and in the San Diego area. Madeline had performed her masquerade on me well. In fact, I was so proud of my concealment and ability to pass that I taped several of these pictures prominently alongside my bunk on SHILOH. None of my shipmates ever guessed that the tall, leggy, young woman in the pictures who favored flirty sundresses along with Jackie Kennedy like scarves around her neck and either wore large sunglasses or never looked directly into the camera was I. Whenever anyone would ask me who the mystery girl was, I would enigmatically tell them that she was a girl who meant a lot to me. I wasn't lying. We hit "YANKEE STATION" and went right into a full-court press as far as air operations were concerned. For fighter pilots that meant lots of Combat Air Patrols and escort missions. The biggest change since my previous combat tour was the increased intensity of the enemy air defenses. There were no holes in it. It may well have been the densest concentration of surface-to-air weaponry ever encountered by American aircrews. My survival trick was not to think about it. If I did, I probably would not have been able to man my aircraft, let alone be catapulted into that daily maelstrom. It was hard not to think about it, however, when a shoot-down occurred. There were too many. On our first 45-day line period, "The Rat Pack" lost two aircraft and pilots, one to triple "A" and one to a SAM. There were no chutes. Under our silly Rules of Engagement, it was a race to see if the North Vietnamese would run out of ammo before the United States ran out of aircraft. The NVA had a decided advantage. Ammo was a hell of a lot cheaper than aircraft. I found this out for myself, first-hand, late in the deployment when coming home to the carrier "balls-to-the-wall" from an Alpha Strike, I took some triple "A" just as I was about to go "feet wet" over water and depart the North Vietnam coastline. I was low-level, fast, jinxing, and almost near the end of a hairy mission. By now, I had become a little too complacent with regard to dodging flak and surface-to- air missiles (SAMS). In retrospect, I might have thought that I was bullet proof. I wasn't. As I flew over a Russian ship at mast level in Haiphong Harbor on this particular egress, I heard and felt some "thuds" strike my aircraft. Immediately after that, everything went to hell. It became deathly quiet in the cockpit. My instrument gauges told me that the death of my aircraft was imminent. There was no torque and the turbine temperature was unwinding faster than "a gambler's lucky streak." So was my airspeed. It was as if I had hit a wall. Unpowered flight will do this to you. My wingman, Mike Riordan, remember him? My antagonist from the Mexican restaurant was shouting, "Eject! You're on fire. Get out!" I did. The Gulf of Tonkin awaited me and I became a charter member of its Yacht Club. I would like to tell you that I was cool and collected as I struggled for survival, the epitome of grace under pressure. I wasn't. I was scared, hyper-excited, and wounded, although I didn't know about my wound until much later. It seems that some of those "thuds" that I heard striking my aircraft also struck me in the form of metal shards on my right upper bicep. A jagged scar would be the result. For years, I would not wear a sleeveless dress or blouse, but I am ahead of myself. Realizing that my Chance-Vought Crusader jet had overstayed its welcome, I made a brief radio call to the effect that I was "punching out" and pulled the face curtain. Shortly, thereafter, I was swimming in the Gulf of Tonkin, alone, afraid, and without a two-piece-Janzten-bathing suit. To his everlasting credit, Mike Riordan, my ever loyal wingman, stayed on station overhead as I bobbed in the waters about two miles off the coast of North Vietnam. Various Vietnamese small boats attempted to intercept or surround me, but his low-level runs with 20 Mike-Mike guns held them at bay. Before long, I was on the receiving end of a hoist from a Combat Search and Rescue Helicopter. About two hours later, I was drinking medicinal brandy in Sick Bay with squadron mates aboard SHILOH. Mike landed with only fumes for fuel. He didn't have enough for a wave off. I got a Purple Heart. Mike got a deserved Distinguished Flying Cross. Forever after, he was "always gentle on my mind." Suddenly, I found myself in demand. Because my wound wouldn't heal, I was whisked off to the Naval Hospital at Cubi Point in the Philippines for rehabilitation. Hey, I was a celebrity of sorts, in that I was the only member of the Rat Pack to score a "kill" in combat since WWII. Korea didn't count because VF-77 had been deactivated between the wars. Anyway, my point is that I was hot property. I was young, a wounded combat pilot, and a MIG Killer. This was a mixed blessing. Once I hit Cubi, Navy nurses, younger ones, anyway, fought to date me. Older ones pretended that I wasn't even on their radar screen, but at the same time, always managed to change my dressings or administer me sponge baths or wanted to catheterize me on specious grounds. Fame wasn't my style, however. Remember, I was a closet cross dresser known only to my wife. Understandably, the Navy frowns on those of its male cadre who prefer skirts versus pants. So, I politely shrugged off any efforts at publicity and returned to my squadron as fast as I could. Besides, our war cruise was about to end and I wanted to be with the "Rat Pack" when it did. I barely made it back in time before SHILOH departed Yankee Station homeward bound. As fate would have it, my last mission over North Vietnam didn't take place. Although I launched to escort a flight of attack aircraft whose mission was to bomb another worthless bridge, which would no doubt be repaired overnight, I experienced a complete electrical failure shortly after take off and had to abort. The next day, SHILOH was relieved on station. My combat days were over. San Diego, here I come. SHILOH and its embarked Air Wing arrived in San Diego and Miramar in the late spring of 1967 in grand style. Families and friends were waiting. Maddy and I embraced warmly on the flight line after our fly off and headed straight for our apartment. She was wearing a mini skirt and a silk blouse that left nothing to the imagination. I could see her lacy bra underneath and her dormant nipples. They wouldn't be at rest much longer. We had a lot of love making to catch up on. As soon as I opened the door, I knew that I was home. Waiting for us in the living room was a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and two fluted glasses. So was a black, silk-full-length slip with matching panties and bra plus a gorgeous Kimono wrap. They were in my size. Emotion flooded over me like the Colorado River fueling Hoover Dam. I was alive, home, safe, in love, and a transvestite who was not condemned to closets and peep shows, at least not with my life partner. Maybe I could go mainstream or something fairly close. I fervently hoped that I could. Time would tell. CHAPTER 7: TIFFANY STRUTS HER STUFF A long, hot tub bath followed, not the shipboard showers that had become my norm. Included were perfumed oils, bubbles, candles, and incense, not to mention sips from the French champagne. A razor was too. Between Maddie and me, my pliant skin was shorn of all body hair. It was pink, fresh, and virtually hairless. A terry-cloth towel dry-off was next. Then came gobs of body powder and a random dabs of my favorite scent applied to me in strategic places. I don't know who was hornier, Maddie or me. Maybe it was a tie. We both were panting. Despite our obvious fervor, Maddie insisted on giving me a "quickie" makeover before we hit the sheets. "I want to kiss it off of you," is what she said. Lipstick, blush, mascara, eyeliner, and an eyebrow pencil were thrown on me like an Impressionist painter with a deadline. Her strokes were measured, even, and effective. In no time, because of my short hair, I looked like a WWII French collaborator mistress who had shacked up with a German soldier during the Occupation. It didn't matter. I was ready to burst. Maddie was ready to explode. Shortly, thereafter, we both did. It was frenzied, animal like, and enjoyable. Monkeys or rabbits could not have had a better time. Settling back into squadron life at Miramar after two combat tours in Vietnam was not easy for me. It was decision time. As a reservist, my obligated active service was coming to an end. The Navy wanted me to stay, but an inner voice told me it would be the wrong course. Maddy certainly wasn't "gung ho" about military life and there was potentially a major conflict ahead with regard to my cross-dressing. If the Navy ever got wind of it, I would be summarily dismissed, an embarrassment to good order and discipline. Moreover, by now both Maddie and I knew that I was more than merely a cross-dresser. There really was a woman inside of me who wanted liberation and her own space in the world. My commitment to an alternate lifestyle was as deep as it was sincere. So, three-and-a-half months after the Rat Pack's return, I bid my squadron mates a fond farewell at "Happy Hour" in the Officers'Club, and drove out the main gate of Naval Air Station Miramar for the last time in the uniform of a Naval Officer. The date was October 6, 1967 and I've never forgotten it. Oh, I knew that some day I would be back, but not in dress blues. Lieutenant Andrew Crewson, USNR, Naval Aviator, F-8 pilot, Centurion, MIG Killer, Officer, and Gentleman was adrift in more ways than one. I didn't want to go back, but I was afraid to go forward. Thank the gods for Maddie. She gave me the strength to pursue my ultimate dream, that of permanently becoming Tiffany. The next day, I began my new life as a civilian. The first thing I did was to get my ears pierced. The second thing that Maddie and I did was to purge all my male clothes except for my Navy Flight Jacket with its squadron, gunfighter, and "Westpac" patches. There was no way that I could ever give that up. It transcended gender confusion and assumed a well-earned place in our closet. From now on, though, it would be skirts, blouses, "buttons and bows." I had my eyebrows plucked and shaped and began to grow my fingernails long as well as my hair. The latter would take some time, but there was no hurry. Femininity was just around the corner. Actually, it was several corners removed, an elaborate series of medical evaluations, and lots of female hormone ingestion. Then, in November 1969, I underwent my vaginoplasty at John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore and Andrew Crewson became Tiffany Crewson, no longer an officer and certainly not a gentleman. All through my pain, I fantasized, "If the Rat Pack could see me now. What would they think?" Maddie was at my side the whole time. She wiped my brow, held my hand, whispered encouragement in my ear, forced me to walk, helped me go to the bathroom, and never let me waiver when it came to dilation of my new landscape. For the record, let me tell you first-hand that the stretching of a newly artificially created vagina is no fun. Quite the contrary, initially, it's intensely painful. The procedure is also funny, particularly, when nurses bring in dildos in various sizes, shapes, and colors and ask you to select your weapon of choice. I was somewhat aghast. Heretofore,