Salesgirl free porn video

If this story isn't for you by reason of age or inclination, cope appropriately please. Salesgirl by Vickie Tern That time of year rolled round again, the fabulous Midwinter Clearance Sale at Lordly's, the largest and finest women's store in town. Wonderful! $400 all-wool business suits with flirty skirts reduced to $35 or less! The most gorgeous silk blouses, shirred and gathered at the wrists and waist, with dangerously deep necklines or sweet piping or georgette lace trim and chaste boatnecks, down from $75 to $10 or less. Alluring bras and slips and coquettish teddies to make Victoria's Secret's raciest seem made for schoolgirls, buy one, get two free! I loved it! I'd go every year and indulge myself, spend sensibly, yet come back with enough beautiful new clothes to provide me with a whole year's renewed joy. Because every new article or accessory reveals to my mirror yet another aspect of my femininity. And I adore looking and feeling feminine. My wife Melanie got to the sale first, spent the whole morning shopping, and came back pleased with her prizes -- a crisp, thin-striped, cotton-knit sweater reduced to 10% of its original price, really lovely I had to agree when she proudly displayed it to me. And a few pairs of socks. I was puzzled. "All morning, and that's it? What were you doing there? Why not more?" "I shopped. I looked at all sorts of lovely things and imagined me wearing them. And that was enough. You'll never understand, Rick, will you? Men never do. They go to stores to buy, not to shop. Shopping is how a woman dreams. It's how we change out lives. It's imagining that we own all sorts of things and deciding whether or not we like the idea. The same as when you're a young girl, you imagine yourself with this guy or that guy, maybe kissing him and maybe ... you know. Then if you like the idea, you do what you can to make it happen. Shopping is how we choose our looks, our lovers, and our lives." For some reason that notion made me feel a little uneasy. "Are you saying that you were shopping when you agreed to marry me?" "I thought you were a terrific buy, yes. Handsome, tasteful, not at all assertive, but serviceable. With your instinctive understanding of so many things that girls like. Until after we were married and I found you understand them because you like them too. For yourself. That made you less attractive. I do prefer men." She smiled a bit tightly, as if to take the edge off that remark, then continued. "Also, I ran into Jessica, Jessica Chapman, you remember her? We shopped together for a long while and talked about the days when we were both shopping for husbands, what we found we'd actually bought when we got them home and tried them on." "You told her about me?" I asked, now worried. "She told me about her husband Matt and his different girlfriends, how he doesn't seem able to keep his pecker in his pants. I told her you have no problem that way. I didn't tell her it was because you keep your pecker in a skirt, I was too ashamed to say it. She thinks I'm lucky to have you. I didn't tell her I disagree." That hurt. Melanie looked at me maybe apologetically, took a deep breath, then added, "Jessica and I went to the Tea Shoppe they have on the second floor at Lordly's and traded lots of gossip. We decided we'd travel together to our high school class reunion this weekend. I called Pam, and it turns out Pam can put her up both nights. I have other options. As for my purchases, I bought what I need. I'm sure when you go you'll buy all sorts of things you don't need, as you do every year. You say they're for the woman in you, but I notice you like to buy lots of sexy stuff, decollete blouses and lacy undies and micro-mini skirts and tight sweaters, the kinds of clothes we use to attract men. Is that what you have in mind?" "That's not fair, Mel." I tried to look judicious but couldn't manage it -- the prospect of acquiring lovely new things to add to my wardrobe simply felt too cheery. I'd been anticipating this sale for so many months, and now here it was! "The man they appeal to is me, same as the woman. Anything I buy is to refresh my feelings about myself." "I suppose," was her response. "Your feminine feelings about yourself!" She doesn't mind that I'm gentle, tender, affectionate, and sentimental, that I enjoy romantic movies, that I cry at weddings, that I can chat knowledgeably with her about all sorts of traditional women's concerns, about other people's relationships, shifts in fashions, even recipes. That I have all sorts of "unmanly" affinities for things women care about. But she does object to what comes with those affinities, that I don't mind feeling unmanly and love feeling feminine, that wearing pretty clothes and making myself look pretty brings me deep satisfaction. That the manliness I present to the world can be stressful, but the femininity I express in private brings me enormous pleasure. That that's how I am, and that there isn't much either of us can do about it. I should have left it at that, but I was feeling expansive. "Remember last year when we went to the sale together and fanned out looking for whatever might appeal to us, and we both came back with the same Givenchy and Liz Claibourne skirts and blouses? You wanted to return yours when you saw mine? Even though they were such incredible bargains? And I pointed out that it was sort of nice we have similar tastes? That it should make us feel closer?" "I certainly do remember, Rick. I love how I look in mine. But it depresses me to see you in yours. I mean, if you want to be a woman, go do it, but while you're doing it don't expect me to think you're my husband." I tried again. "A lot of your wardrobe these days consists of things I wanted for myself but thought would look better on you, so I bought them for you instead." "I appreciate that. They're nice things. And mostly I don't hassle you about this ... this thing of yours, do I? I don't like your gussying up and flouncing around the house. You do it and I try to ignore it. It bothers me inside, but I never say anything about it. So you can't really complain." This was true in one sense. Day after day she carefully paid no attention whatever to my appearance. I'd been working on my complexion for weeks, using skin-softeners twice a day. I knew she liked it, because she'd stroke my body reassuringly when I got into bed with her, but ... no comment. Yesterday I'd worn an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse inviting standard girl talk -- comment on how prettily it showed off my shoulders, or asking how a strapless bra can hold up breast forms. Nothing. Today I was wearing a new clingy silk two piece dress to celebrate the end of my three-month long diet. Finally I was a size 12, nearly as thin as when I was 14 years old, the year a girlfriend dressed me in her size 10 dress for fun, and to my amazement I felt ... ecstatic. Deeply fulfilled, as if in some strange way I'd come home. When I asked to wear it again the next time I was with her, she looked at me oddly, and soon afterward she moved on to a "real boyfriend." So I'd bought my own dress and all the things that went with it, and worn them all happily whenever I could. And many other dresses since. Now that I'd slimmed way down again I desperately wanted Melanie to compliment me, to tell me that my new figure was willowy, svelte, as thin as any beautiful model's, deliciously sexy. Anything at all. Hers was the opinion I valued most. But I might just as well have worn floppy overalls for all the notice Melanie seemed to take. She knew I'd slimmed down not for my health but to look girlish, so she chose not to see it. Certainly not to mention it. I hesitated to raise the issue but it was troubling me. "Not quite true," I said. "You don't ignore my ... choice of clothes. These days, no matter how nicely I dress and make up my face, no matter how careful I am that the neighbors never see me and embarrass you, you're a lot less affectionate than you once were. Ever since I first confessed to you that I'd begun wearing women's clothes the way I did before we met, and that I couldn't stand secrets between us so I wanted you to know." Her voice was tart. "Wanted me to approve, you mean! You were even hoping to 'express your feminine side' with me in public, in restaurants and stores all around town, weren't you! You'd love to be my girlfriend in bed as well as my husband, wouldn't you? Well, no! You dress at home all the time! You fax your work to the various magazines that buy it so you can stay dressed all day, and you'll notice I haven't complained, have I? When I get home each day I'm never greeted by a man, only by a woman who looks like someone I once knew. That simply turns me off. When you're dressed as a woman I can't bring myself to touch you much less kiss you. But have I complained even once?" Not for several years. Nor commented on it either, not any more. She simply chose not to notice. I'd tried all sorts of extremes to elicit responses. Flouncy negligees for breakfast. My most stunning cocktail dress, a brocade with hand-stitched embroidery, sophisticated, gorgeous, really a knockout, worn with heels and crisp make-up all afternoon and then through dinner. Still nothing. Once a figure-hugging draped evening gown, teal, with my hair up and my finest rhinestone earrings, while we watched TV in the evening. She commented only on the TV program. I wanted so desperately to be told no more than any woman wants to hear, that I look nice! But she never said anything. I'd settled into spending most of my time at home in an ordinary skirt and blouse. Stockings and moderate heels, to be sure, I like a certain formality when I'm working -- it helps me concentrate. Yet I once padded my "C" breast forms to "DD" and slipped on a tight sweater to force her to comment. My chest jutted almost obscenely out at her like two huge projectiles, yet she pretended she didn't notice. She wasn't finished defending her tolerance of me as sufficient. "Then last year when you began leaving the house to attend those crossdresser meetings of yours, thankfully at night when no one can see, did I say no to that? I've read the books. I know you're unhappy because I never compliment you even when you really do look beautiful." I beamed! I couldn't help it! She'd said it! "Do you know why I don't? Because I don't want to encourage this ... this thing of yours! I've accepted that you're a transvestite, but maybe you're more of a transsexual than you think. Maybe you really do want to become a woman, not just look like one! I don't know. I want a man. I have to do what I think best." I tried to intervene, to reassure her, but she was on a roll. "And how do I know you don't dress to attract men? Wouldn't you feel excited if you went out to a supper club in a dress and a man asked you to dance? I would. Maybe we should go out and try it? See who scores first? Maybe you really are gay and don't know it?" "I'm not," I said categorically. "I don't know that and neither do you. Maybe you are, more than you're willing to admit even to yourself. And that's a problem for me. I owe nothing to the man I married if he chooses not to be the man I married! Nothing! So you'll just have to accept that I feel put off. I'm not physically attracted to a man who wears skirts and lipstick and eye make-up all day. If he isn't all the man he can be in his own eyes, he isn't in mine. He's someone else. I'm sorry, Rick, but as you like to say, that's how it is!" She didn't look sorry, she looked hurt and angry. I realized once again that I shouldn't have raised the subject. We've had this same conversation before and it always ends the same way. This time again. She took in a few deep breaths to calm down, then picked up her shopping bag. "Go to Lordly's, Rick," she said a little more calmly. "Buy whatever pleases you. You earn it, I can't begrudge you. Be the pretty girl of your dreams! You do what you do and I'll do what I do. This sweater and these socks are all I cared to buy, so let's not talk about them! And I don't want to know what you buy, so don't get enthusiastic and try to show them to me when you come home. I'm not interested. I've got things of my own to do!" She carried her purchases upstairs. I decided to head out to Lordly's then and there, before the sale was stripped bare by other first-day bargain-hunters. So I followed her upstairs to our bedroom and removed my skirt and blouse and put on a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved men's shirt. I was tempted to leave my bra on. But Melanie was looking straight at me, and I knew she saw it even though she pretended she saw nothing, and I didn't dare anger her further. Go out in public with my chest pushed out, like some carnival freak? So, I took it off and my shirt went on over a bare chest. Apart from Melanie, the only others who knew about my transvestism were the "girls" who attended our monthly Trans support meetings at the Masonic Temple. Most of them were men in ill-fitting dresses and bad makeup and cheap wigs, overweight as women but delightedly, pathetically at ease with themselves for once, gratefully enjoying their "femininity" in the presence of other "girls" similarly blessed or blighted, take your pick which. A few were "sisters" or "girlfriends" to their wives, and had even gone on out-of-town vacations with them as two women together. But only a few. Some of the married "girls" in our group weren't allowed to dress at home at all -- they had to bring their women's clothes and accessories and then sneak into a room set aside for the purpose and dress and make up on the premises. Some of their wives didn't even know about their peculiar ... need. So I felt fortunate. A few of us were reasonably passable, and on an ordinary day we could look like the ordinary women anyone glances at inattentively in stores or malls. I was one of those. In fact I flattered myself that I could turn heads if I really chose to. But we all granted each other the respect due to anyone who feels an intense and embarrassing but harmless compulsion and attempts to cope, and we honored each other by accepting the gender we chose to enact as if it were a fact. No matter how manly our appearance, we were all girls. Many were still exploring their feminine desires and some suspected they'd be going much further than transvestism, perhaps through divorce and genital surgery and then into the ranks of women everywhere indistinguishable from any other women. A month or so earlier we'd been joined by a full-time post-operative transsexual woman named Lise, whose face, figure, voice, and mannerisms were indistinguishable from any born female's. Lise had been a businessman, but nowadays she hosted at a small restaurant downtown and was "stealth" -- only we knew she hadn't been born a woman. We weren't sure why she'd joined us -- perhaps she felt fully herself only with other transwomen, others who understood her past. Most of us had no desire to follow her all the way into the other sex. But we were all nevertheless envious of her -- she was so perfectly what we wanted to imagine we were! She could go anywhere other women go without risk, without raising eyebrows, ladies' rooms or beauty salons. Because that's what she was. Knowing the problems others faced with their wives and girlfriends, I counted my blessings. I could dress every day at home. As long as I was careful I could leave the house dressed for my monthly meeting feeling like a proper lady. Watching the seasonal sales, I could accumulate a closet full of tasteful clothes of good quality, not costly, and I loved deciding each day which to wear, which matched my moods. I knew I looked nice. It did bother me that Melanie never acknowledged it, that I was an attractive woman only to my mirror. The fact is, I was as fearful as Melanie of discovery by our neighbors. I loved my effeminacy but didn't want to be branded weird, thought to be a sissy, a perverted queer, possibly a pedophile. Some probably knew I cross-dressed. Now and then I'd forget and leave window shades up, and then anyone happening to glance into our house could see that a strange woman resembling me was wandering about in our study and bedrooms, occasionally downstairs in the kitchen. It may have been bravado, an in-your-face assertion that "I am what I am!" But mostly it was carelessness. I'd simply gotten accustomed to living as a woman at home, to wearing the clothes I chose and looking as feminine as I could. That was what felt natural and comfortable. No big deal, I liked it. If people saw me dressed in my own house, they saw. They could scarcely acknowledge what they saw when we met on the street or in stores, not when they were the Peeping Toms, not me. Melanie refused to share even a hair ribbon with me, so I bought even those for myself. No big deal there either. Shopping around town for dresses and skirts and intimate undergarments becomes less harrowing than you'd think after a few years. It's safe, even if you're seen by someone who knows you. No casual observer can ever be certain why you're wandering among the lingerie. Lots of straight men shop with wives, who may well disappear into other parts of the store while their men wait for them, staring bored at racks of lacy teddies, bras, and pantyhose. Some straight men shop for their wives even when Valentine's day or birthdays aren't looming -- women who may be bedridden or can't be bothered and send their husbands instead. Lots of men shop for sexy dresses and intimate gifts for other women, not just their wives. And lots shop for themselves, more than you'd think. Frederick's of Hollywood says that 42% of their customers are men, and not all of them are shopping for gifts. Some of their scanty satin, like Victoria's Secret's, is intended for men, to provide them the same delicious illusion women seek our, the sense that they're beautiful and sexually desirable. Tight legged panty girdles are bought by women who want to shape their rears and men who want that but also to snug their genitals into their crotches, so they can appear to be women even when wearing tight pants. I'd felt embarrassed when I first began shopping in women's stores, and would ostentatiously carry around a slip of paper with my various shoe, dress, skirt, blouse, panty, slip, and bra sizes written out on it, pretending to consult it from time to time as if I were buying some mysterious item for my wife, as if I were an explorer wandering across an alien planet and needed these rubrics to find my way. But I soon saw I needn't bother. Shopgirls are trained never to query, never to embarrass anyone with the slightest smile, always to be considerate and helpful to the nervous men who bring female garments to checkout counters to be charged. Maybe the clothes are for the women in their lives, and maybe the clothes are for the women they feel themselves to be. It doesn't matter. All of the clothes are there to be sold. ******************* When I arrived at Lordly's I browsed and speculated and tempted myself, examining nearly everything in the store, waiting to feel the tug of recognition that said "that blouse is me!" Gradually I collected and then weeded out all sorts of garments. Melanie was correct. When I shop as a man I buy the specific items I've come to buy, or their close equivalents, the first items I see that will do. But I understood Melanie -- as a woman I shop. I imagine myself wearing different things. I try them on in my mind to see if I love myself in them. I don't dare shop while wearing women's clothes, so I don't dare use the fitting rooms, however much I'd want to. Hours later, finally satisfied with my treasures, I piled them high up in my arms and looked for the sales counter nearest me. It was so exciting! Each blouse, skirt, dress, sweater, belt, or nightie would subtly define the womanly "me" inside me in a new way when I put it on. Each would make me into a different sort of girl than I'd ever before imagined myself. Each felt different and looked different, and so would I. No doubt underneath all this was a wishful faith in primitive magic, a hope that this time this panty or this necklace actually would convert me into a real woman. In my mirror they did. My hands shook in anticipation of the adventures I'd have when I got home and began trying these things on. But first I had to pay for them. I saw a checkout desk among the racks of Blazers and Jackets, and headed there. Then I put on my poker face, leaned over, and laid my loot across the counter top. No one there. Then suddenly someone was there. "Shall I ring these up for you, sir?" she asked. Most salesgirls or "sales assistants" or whatever they're called these days are barely out of high school. Pay scales are meager. But Lordly's sustains a different standard and it's often difficult to tell a "sales assistant" from a wealthy customer. Cultivated, poised, soignee, hair styled fashionably short or twisted elegantly back, figures erect, they might be fashion models or magazine editors or dancers in some nearby Center for Performing Arts. They seem dressed for art gallery openings and then for dining and dancing in posh private clubs, accompanied by some doting rich stockbroker who attends to their needs while they eye the other men in the room. Quietly self-assured, they look customers directly in the eye with no obsequiousness. This woman at the cash register was looking at me just that way. She was a few years older than the others, about Melanie's age, and supremely self-possessed. I nodded to her, then averted my eyes altogether and tried to look indifferent, even bored, as she registered each item. She was more skilled than the others, I saw, as she expertly flipped each garment flat onto the counter with its price and advertising tag turned up. Each tag carried a message designed to overcome feminine indecisiveness, to reassure timidity. "Congratulations! You'll wear this stunning garment with pride!" they variously advised as they discreetly named their price. So I congratulated myself as each item was lifted briefly by the saleswoman's red-jeweled, perfectly manicured fingertips. She herself commented aloud on each item as she tore off the price tags, unclipped the electronic squealers attached to signal a shoplift in progress, and folded each garment into tissue paper. "What a pretty blouse!" she'd say. Or "soft pastels like these are so flattering." And "This skirt is a classic, it'll stay in fashion for years." And an astonished "Only $29.95? It's a Lagerfeld you know! An incredible buy!" I assume she was instructed to say things like that to reassure and flatter purchasers, to ensure their satisfaction. Which may be why I scarcely heard her at first when she said, "So utterly feminine, this slip. I love the delicate lace edging. You'll really enjoy wearing it, I'm sure. It can go with any of these blouses." The woman standing in line behind me broke out in a reflexive titter, then stifled it out of general politeness but also caution. Men in women's stores can be unstable and unpredictable, especially the perverts. I might turn on her. I might run humiliated toward an exit. Maybe I was already embarrassed to be buying things for a wife who'd picked them out and left me to pay and then gone on to another store, and would snap under further pressure. In this case, hearing how I'd enjoy wearing a pretty slip under a new pretty blouse, I tried to maintain a polite impassivity, one that said I was pleased that she was pleased with my purchases. I realized too late that I should have made an amused quip. Instead, my cheeks turned hot and I began to blush like a teenage schoolgirl caught with a boy in a locker room. My traitorous face confessed everything to the well-coiffed society woman who was checking out my purchases. I suppose that told her enough, but she politely tested what she suspected. When only a few more things remained to be checked out, she asked me, "Would you like these gift-wrapped? Or are you so anxious to get them home that a bag will do?" If I answered "Yes" to the gift wrapping, then none of these feminine things were for me, presumably, and I was genuinely innocent of any intent to wear any of them. They were intended for some woman somewhere else, and I was beyond suspicion. Yet it could mean I'm so devastatingly ashamed to be purchasing these things for myself that I feel compelled to parade my innocence, insisting on the gift-wrapping to maintain a charade, the illusion that these feminine items were not for me, no way. In which case I was a real wimp, ashamed of my own desires. Yet I seemed composed enough, standing there. Of course! If I really were innocent of any intention to wear these things myself, the odds are I'd want them gift-wrapped separately, not together, so each could be separately admired as I presented them to various lucky women. I felt trapped. I took the only recourse left to me. I barely whispered, "A bag will do!" That could sustain the notion that I was paying for these things as asked by some woman momentarily gone elsewhere. But maybe that would confirm that the clothes were for me? I was trapped however I replied. My cheeks sustained their deep flush. She looked straight at me. "Are you sure you don't want to fill in your supply of beauty products as well? We're practically giving away everything during this sale. All sorts of make-up and hair supplies." "No thank you," I whispered, trying to seem indifferent. "Not today. I have enough." 'I have enough'? I'd actually confessed that? Busted! Now she knew all. Yet only the faintest upturn of corners of her mouth registered it. But she couldn't avoid asking one more test question. Maybe a test question. It usually was, for people in my position. "Cash or charge?" "Cash." The clincher. Who pays cash for hundreds and hundreds of dollars of women's wear? No one without a secret to hide. My credit was maxed out? No, I looked financially responsible. She knew why I wanted to pay cash, I wanted no monthly statement to record these purchases, no evidence of them ever to enter my household, possibly to be seen by a wife or girlfriend or daughter who would then wonder who these items were for and where they were. Maybe because they were intended as gifts for some woman I was keeping on the side? They were lovely, every one of them, true. Each had made a special claim on my heart as I'd winnowed my stack. But still, paid for with cash? Not charged, and not gift-wrapped, not any of them? I certainly had something to hide! Did one of the saleswoman's meticulously plucked brows rise up ever so slightly? It suddenly occurred to me, I was now trapped beyond recovery. This perfectly composed, unflappable woman was sure to ask me next, 'Would you like to apply for a Lordly's charge card, sir? All these purchases will be an additional 20% off if charged on a new Lordly's card. I can issue you a temporary card immediately!' That would require that I give her my name and address, maybe name the kind of credit card I was already reluctant to use, open me to blackmail by anyone in the whole store. Because surely there would be a notation next to my Lordly charge card record, 'Wears women's clothes -- send him lingerie ads.' Yet who wouldn't accept a charge card in exchange for a considerable savings, if only to cancel it the next month? Instead, I was surprised. "Marie, register!" she suddenly called to someone outside my line of sight. I dared not betray enough interest to turn around and look, even though if I were guilty of indecent purchasing as charged and "Marie" was a store detective, I'd have wanted to know in time to sidle away and out of the store empty handed. As if I'd attempted to shoplift. Was gender transgression a worse crime? I stood stiffly by, waiting for the sky to fall in. But Marie turned out to be a younger version of the woman waiting on me, also beautifully coiffed and well-poised, who placed herself at another cash register on the other end of the long counter and told the woman behind me, "I can take you now, Ma'am!" The woman behind me moved off with her arms full of her own purchases. I turned and saw I was alone. I'd envisioned a long line of shopping women observing me, each evaluating what had happened and deciding with contempt, amusement, or both that this sissy was truly indulging himself -- where was his wife to draw the line, to deny him the right to transgress so boldly into woman country? My saleswoman placed a sign, "Register Closed," in front of the neatly folded and tissue-papered pile of my purchases, and smiled reassuringly at me as she tore off the last of the price tags and dropped it onto the neat pile of others waiting for deft adding up and processing. "May I suggest something for your next shopping trip here, sir?" she asked. "Yes, of course," I replied, braced for nearly anything, expecting superficial advice useless to an experienced shopper for women's wear like me. I was altogether unprepared for what came next. She leaned forward and spoke very quietly. "Come dressed next time, sir. In a dress or skirt and make-up, looking the way women do who know they're going to be seen by other women, and know they're going to be looking at themselves critically in mirrors. If you prefer to wear slacks and a man-tailored shirt like the one you have on now, a silk chemise underneath would make trying everything on a lot easier. Earrings of course, and fluff your hair just a little, and you'll feel a lot more comfortable, and you'll enjoy the Lordly experience far more. At the very least you'll be able to use our fitting rooms. Not that you can't now, we'd never refuse you the right, but most men do feel uncomfortable when they carry dresses and bras into fitting rooms, then emerge to purchase some and return others." I listened as if I were she were discussing Mongolian pottery, something that had nothing to do with me. "You'd pass easily, dear, your face can be made to look as pretty as any woman's here, though I'm sure you already know that. And you have excellent taste. But you do give yourself away." I stared at her, still impassive. My cheeks were now incandescent. In fact my whole head felt on fire! "It's obvious, honey! Even apart from the way you pay for them but don't want them gift wrapped. All of these items are in your size. Maybe it's a coincidence. But notice, this denim dress in your size has too tight a bodice and waistline for you. For anyone! Any woman could see immediately that this style needs to be worn a size larger. You'd certainly know if you'd tried it on." She glanced at me, a little amused. "Even a woman like you would know it would squeeze her breasts." Then with a warm, confiding glance, almost woman to woman, she continued. "Could this dress be a present for a wife or a special friend? No, it's too ordinary. No man would buy something so plain as a gift. Something like it maybe, if it were special, perhaps a beaded or embroidered denim, or a denim dress cut in a very high style with a major designer label, Oscar de la Renta or Donna Karen. But not this one. It's a very nice dress indeed, but it's for wearing around the house or to the supermarket, for comfort. Comfortable means roomy. But this one will never fit you, dear. Do go back where you got it and select the next size up. I'll wait." I continued to stare at her. She stared back. I blinked first. "All right," I said, confessing everything with just those two syllables. And then did just that. When I got back I saw she hadn't moved. I was thankful she hadn't launched into this talk while the woman behind me could still hear. That had to be why she'd moved her out of earshot. It was an act of kindness, to save me embarrassment while she tried to help me. An element of pleading may have been detectable in my eyes, but at the same time maybe, gratitude. "Thank you," I told her as I returned with the larger dress, laid it on the counter, and watched her take it up. This was frightening but exciting! For the first time in my life I'd been found out! My worst fear had just been realized! Yet this sophisticated woman saw nothing wrong! She wanted to help me! She continued to look at me levelly, her expression even more impassive than mine. Her eyes, I noticed, were beautifully made up. Being blonde, she'd used green eyeshadow shaded imperceptibly into gray, the gray merging down her lids into the black line emphasizing her heavy lashes. She used lip liner too, I saw, but again she'd subtly blended it into the mauve lipcolor she favored. I envied her skill. "You're very welcome. You do know I hope how lucky you are. You have good bone structure and you're thin. Any woman with your figure would surely want to show it off with form-fitting clothes. Yet these clothes are mostly generous in size. To hide your lack of breasts? You think that if you're dressed in these no one will think you're a man? But it's the opposite, dear! If your body were enhanced just a little and then dressed in tight clothes, tasteful but revealing, there'd be no doubt at all what you are. Then you could freely use any of our facilities: our fitting rooms, rest rooms, our ladies' tea shop, even our beauty salon!" Was she addressing me as if I were a woman, even though she knows better? I didn't wince. She saw that and continued. "You'd certainly enjoy our salon. Our operators are all experts. Clothes may make the man, but it's a woman's hair and face that make her a woman, and only then her clothes! Her face is her fortune. If I were you I'd want to ask a beauty consultant about several things. For example, with a dark shade of foundation just below your chin and a touch of white just below your brows, I'm sure your face would seem smaller, better proportioned. Even cute, in a way!" She smiled reassuringly at me, then went on. "You wear your hair long for obvious enough reasons. But hair that long needs accessories -- hair combs or barrettes, or scrunchies. Men don't dare wear decorative items like those, the poor dears, but you could if you dressed more appropriately. Also, I see that your hair length is uneven, and there are split ends that need trimming. True, you've brushed it back like a man's, but it still shows where earlier today you had it up in rollers for body and a hint of curl." I reached up as if to smooth it down before I could stop myself. Then my face burned even brighter. "Oh, it's graceful enough, and I especially like the way it falls, but it does need shaping, a style that fits your face. Yes." She studied me closely, draping the back of one hand under her chin. "If I were you, dear, I'd try something extreme, really devastating, unequivocal. Something all girl! Maybe do it all in a brighter color, with streaks or frosted tips! And I'd want a facial and a complete makeover. You really should want to look your best! " Incredible! She was treating me like a woman friend! The way I'd often wished my wife would treat me! I was so grateful that I decided to break cover. I said in a small voice, "Thank you! I appreciate everything you've said. But I've never gone out dressed in the daytime. And I've never dared walk into a beauty salon!" "There are first times for everything any woman does, honey, and we all remember them fondly, and then there're no problems at all the second time," she said. "The second time it's pure enjoyment." She smiled at me conspiratorially -- we women already know that. "It's true, our salon makeovers are very pricey. But how about this? I'll credit you with tomorrow's additional sales reductions plus my own employee discount -- that's 50% altogether -- and put the money you save into a salon gift certificate to defray whatever the salon charges to make you beautiful this first time. You do owe it to yourself! If you'll promise me you'll use the certificate." Stunned, I nodded. She then went back to work, took each tag and rang it up, ran the reduction and discount, and then tenderly placed each garment in a large, colorful store bag. Her fingers were thin and long but strong, I saw, tipped with those dark red nails. "You'd better keep this separate," she said, handing me the salon gift credit her register had just printed. "You're very kind," I replied. "Thank you." I realized suddenly that I'd just agreed to get a completely new hairdo, maybe also a makeover! In a salon! My God! Moreover, without realizing it I'd lapsed into my femme voice, the one I use during my monthly support group meetings, higher, melodic, and slightly tense. My wife hated hearing it at home. "Be a man, for God's sake," she'd say. "You sound as if you were pleading for something!" Maybe I was? I'd sometimes use it when under stress, and I was feeling stressed now. A salon? For a new face and hairdo? I loved the idea! But I was terribly afraid of it! It wouldn't happen soon. "Will this shopping bag be too much for you?" she asked suddenly. "We have the older kind, but I love this new design." She held it up to share it with me. It was breathtaking. An elongated silhouette of an obviously nude woman in bright red against a white background, standing with her arms raised and bent way back as if in a sexual ecstasy, a tuft of hair on her mound hinted, even her nipple tips visible. Like a halo around it appeared the legend "I'm a Lordly Woman." It was practically pornographic! She was testing me. Why? To see if I'd flinch at the prospect of carrying such an advertisement for myself out of the store, a bag celebrating the nature of my purchases. As if I were confessing that's what I am in my heart? A woman? Or anyhow, less than a man? "No, it's all right," I said. I hadn't intended it, but it was exciting! Now that I'd agreed with her that I was a woman in some sense, and wanted to look more like one, I didn't mind carrying the Lordly's bag and making it known to anyone! I took some large bills out of my wallet, my hands shaking. She took them, rang up the amount, counted out my change, then kept the change and the bag close by her, just out of my reach. She smiled. "Miss," she said pointedly. "Will you do me a huge favor? Really do yourself a favor? I can promise you a lovely reward? I know you won't regret it!" I was shocked! Maybe my wife didn't sympathize with my urges, but this woman did. And now was she coming on to me? I'd never been unfaithful to Melanie! How do I handle this? "What favor?" I asked timorously. "First, what reward. It happens that my former husband was like you, and exactly your size too. I still have his entire wardrobe. I loved helping him look beautiful, and we lavished lots of money on it. It's a wonderful collection -- designer dresses and slacks, casual and high style, all of it really elegant, all of it still in style. You could wear his sportswear in the smartest country club in the country and be asked to dance by powerful men, bankers and Senators, and still be altogether appropriately dressed. I know. I know women's clothing. You see, honey, I'm really a buyer here at Lordly's, not a salesperson. I've been filling in this afternoon to see for myself what sorts of women are attracted by this sale. I've wondered whether it might bring in your sort of woman too. I saw you some time ago over there, incidentally, and watched as you selected things. You have very good taste." "Thank you," I said again. Where was this going? Was she about to sell me her ex's stash? I'd just spent about as much money as I dared! "I want to give you his whole collection! You'll agree when you see it that it was practically made for you! You'll love it I know!" I was stunned! I couldn't breathe! My fondest dream, to dress in the really high-styled clothes I've never been able to afford! To look really well-dressed! "There's a whole bureau and a walk-in closet full. Bras, panties, negligees, nighties, skirts, robes, cocktail dresses of all sorts, everything all the way to evening gowns, everything any woman needs from the skin on out." I mustered a wan smile of appreciation, but I still couldn't speak! I could barely breathe. "I even once bought my hubby some slut-gear to wear, and he did wear it, quite a few times. He even finally learned how to enjoy it, to enjoy what happened to him when he wore it in certain places. All that can be yours too!" The strangest shiver ran through me. I nodded. All what can be mine? I'd never fantasied myself a temptress or a whore, not even a French Maid. I preferred being myself, a natural woman. What was it her husband "finally learned to enjoy"? Bondage games? It sounded as if she'd trained him to ... to service men?. Or he'd gotten to like 'it.' Being a whore? Whatever 'it' was. "My name's Aileen, by the way. If you want the entire wardrobe, it's yours. But I'll need your phone number. Here's mine. May I have yours, Miss ... ah....?" She scribbled her number on a Lordly's business card, and after only a few seconds I scribbled mine on another. "I'm Rick," I said as I handed it over. "I'm very pleased to meet you." "'Rick,'" she repeated. I'm sure you are pleased, Rick! But perhaps not just yet. Remember, in exchange, there're the favors I need to ask of you. Favors you'll owe yourself. Two of them." I waited. Here it comes. "These aren't play clothes. They need to be worn properly. Negligees with your hair down. Long beaded gowns with your hair up. Dresses and skirt and sweater sets with your hair set appropriately, I'd say in your case pinned but swinging across the back of your neck. With your face made up properly. With your figure properly proportioned. When you dress in these, you'll want to look as well-groomed as I am." I looked at her. She was perfect! Her complexion flawless and her cheeks beautifully blushed. Mouth impeccable. Her eyes mysteriously shaded yet sparkling. Her hair up in a twisted knot and every hair in place. She smiled as she saw me studying her. "It doesn't just happen," she said in a kindly voice. "Before I show you the clothes, I'll want to know that your face and hair are appropriate. Let me set up a salon appointment for you right now. When are you free? Preferably soon? You'll need the whole morning, at least a few hours. Then when you're presentable we can have a light lunch and you can come home with me and try everything on, and we'll see how you look in them, and I'll advise you how to wear them to your best advantage. We'll put on a fashion show! Yes, of course, that's what we'll do! That'll take up the whole afternoon too, I'm sure." She reached for the phone and looked at me. All caution had fled. What an incredible opportunity to go all the way, however briefly! To look perfect! Better than that maybe, beautiful! To be everything I can be! I felt drunk with anticipation, and I tried to get a grip on myself! It figured that she'd have extremely high standards! She was in the business, and would tolerate no amateurish approximations. I'd have to look real! As polished, as elegant as any Lordly woman. But what would Melanie say? How could I account for a sudden unexplained upgrading of my looks when I dressed around the house, and how explain a closet full or more of expensive new clothes. I'd need to expand into the guest room to store them! Would Melanie think I've suddenly become some man's kept woman? She might, she was always confusing transvestites and transsexuals with gays. In fact I'd be the beneficiary of a woman's generosity, not a man's, but would she feel any better about that? I'd have to tell her the truth. Then I will, I decided. I'll tell her everything, but not until it's necessary. Soothingly, reassuringly, tactfully. She might even share in my exultation at this stroke of good fortune. Or at least not mind it. Who was I kidding? She'd hate it, and seek explanations for everything, and remain suspicious. Well, I'd deal with that as I had to. "Is there someone you live with who might object?" Aileen asked, her hand still on the phone. "A girlfriend perhaps? A wife?" She paused. "A boyfriend?" "No, my wife and I have an understanding. I do what I must and she doesn't see it or say anything about it. She doesn't want to encourage me." "Then is there some problem?" I didn't want to tell her I'd never gone this far before. That might seem cowardice. Lack of commitment. So I concentrated. When could I find a free day for this makeover and fashion show? Was there some one day soon when I could come home looking more thoroughly feminine than ever before in my whole life and yet have a chance to explain it to Melanie gradually? Of course! The timing couldn't be more perfect! This coming Thursday Melanie would be driving up with Jessica to visit her old friend Pam in the town where she grew up, a couple of hours' drive away. They'd see some plays, attend their high school class's reunion on Saturday, maybe the picnic Sunday, maybe not come back until Sunday night depending on how much fun she was having. Maybe later. "I'll phone you when I know," she'd told me when she announced it a couple of weeks ago. "Enjoy yourself," was all I'd replied. She took all-girl weekends now and then the same way I took all-guy trips, mine to go fishing or just hang out in a duck blind and shoot the breeze. Thursday through Sunday, maybe later. That was plenty of time for me to get done up, enjoy it, and then undo whatever high style makeover this woman wanted for me and return to my old familiar self. Perfect! I could look like a well-groomed lady the whole weekend without Melanie once asking any embarrassing questions! I was sure that once my face was done right I'd never be read, never be found out! Aileen seemed to think so too. What a wonderful weekend I could have! I'd take Thursday off and get prettied up and do Aileen's fashion show and then there'd be days -- a couple of them anyhow -- for me to wear high fashion outfits downtown somewhere. To be seen as I'd always wished to be seen! The prospect sent another delicious shiver all through me. "This Thursday," I said. "Thursday is fine. Then I'm free the whole weekend. Maybe longer!" "Perfect!" Aileen pushed some buttons and spoke quietly a moment into the phone, listened, laughed, said something else, and then hung up looking pleased. "It's done," she told me. "You're in luck! Thursday is the salon's annual 'two-for-one' day. I told Hannah -- she's the manager -- that since you were only one person she should give you twice the attention. She laughed but agreed when I told her what it was we wanted done. She likes challenges. She's looking forward to this one. There'll be no charge with your Salon gift certificate, though the usual cost would be nearly double its value." "It'll all need to be undone again, remember, Aileen," I tried to remind her. "This is all short term." My heart was beating wildly, I hoped not noticeably. This was all so sudden! But so wonderful! "Of course, nothing lasts forever," she said absently. "Wear something nice to the Salon, sweetheart, nothing fancy, just so the girls know you're a woman of taste and treat you accordingly. Don't dress down. Touch of make-up at least. A good cotton skirt with maybe this Ann Taylor blouse! Or slightly tight designer jeans instead of a skirt, if you have a pair and your rear happens to be round. Not yet? You haven't started on hormones yet, Rick, really? You need them you know, your face is just a bit angular. We can fix that though. There's a Figure Boutique nearby, and I know the people in charge. They did my former husband -- we're old friends. We'll stop there after the salon." "I've never been out during the day," I said, a little worried. "You'll be fine. Oh yes, breasts. Do you have your own? I thought not. Well leave your breast forms at home. We'll stop at the Figure Boutique afterward for a body makeover to match what Hannah does with your face and hair, and fit you out properly. You'll need authentic proportions for these dresses. Oh, I told Hannah your name is Erica, Rick. So that's what it is, whatever it was. I hope you don't mind." I didn't. I was "Rickie" at support group meetings, and never really liked it. "Erica" was nicer. But there was still something else on her mind too, I could tell. Finally she found how to break it to me. "Erica honey, there's still the other thing I meant by a favor. Understand, there are certain long term implications in all this. I have no objection to your wearing a beautiful wardrobe all day at home or even to attend meetings of other trans-women like you, if you go to things like that. As long as you always look like you're wearing the clothes, not that the clothes are wearing you. That's a matter of confidence, self-assurance, poise. These things don't just happen -- you'll need training and lots of encouragement. Would your wife be willing to help you? I'll expect to if not, until you're no longer in need of it." I heard her silently, a bit troubled. I suppose I should be feeling grateful, but this was more of Aileen than I'd bargained for, certainly more than Melanie would tolerate for me. Even so, Melanie was responsible for it, in a way. "No," I said. "My wife won't want to help. I'll appreciate your help." "All right. Then understand, these clothes are not for the closet. They need to be worn where they can be seen, in appropriate places on appropriate occasions. They're not to be hidden away like some secret vice. They're gorgeous. Their designers intend the women wearing them to look gorgeous and be seen looking gorgeous. So other women of fashion will envy you. Which means, you'll need to wear them on various social occasions. Can you promise me you will?" I wasn't sure what she meant, what was implied. But I'd been thinking of attending some crossdressers' conventions out of town, and they always end with a grand formal ball, so the evening gowns could indeed be worn appropriately. The sportswear I could wear anywhere for fun once I was sure I could pass. It really was time for me to leave the house and enjoy my femininity in other places. The cocktail gowns, the "better dresses" as the stores called them, those were a problem. Where could a man go where a cocktail dress was appropriate? Those were for parties or for dates. "I want to be honest, Aileen," I said. And I told her what I was thinking. "I'll help you there too, Erica, if you like. When you dress to look really attractive, don't you ever feel like stepping out? Kicking up your heels? Being deliciously adventurous? Being seen, being talked about? We can make the occasions, girlfriend. Don't worry about it." 'Girlfriend!' I loved it! So I promised to wear her clothing appropriately and I thanked her. Warmly! She smiled and then finally she handed me my bag of purchases and my change. "Now you're a Lordly's woman," she said. It was like an irrevocable initiation rite, and I stared at her, taken aback. She added quickly, "Don't look so startled, Erica, that's what our salesgirls are all trained to say when a sale's concluded. But you soon will be a Lordly's woman! Isn't that why you came shopping here? I'll see you Thursday. I'll look in when Hannah's about finished, and then I'll drive you to the Figure Boutique, and afterward introduce you to your new wardrobe. If you're still up for it." Thursday looked like quite a breakthrough day for me! In a way I was glad that this woman was making all the plans and arrangements and was propelling me through it. On my own it would have taken me months to get up the courage to step outside wearing a skirt and makeup during the day, no place to hide. And months more before I got up the courage to walk into a salon. Now all I had to do was go with the flow and try not to worry about it. "I won't need my own car to transport all those clothes home afterward?" I asked. "No, expect to leave your car here when you leave the Salon." Aileen said. "I'll take us where we're going. I know the way." ********************** Thursday morning Melanie and I both left the house early. Jessica couldn't leave until after lunch, so Melanie decided to put in a half-day at her office before they drove down the Interstate the few hours it would take to get to her friend Pam's house. She packed a suitcase into the car so she could leave directly from the office, so the house and the whole weekend were free for me to enjoy my adventure in femininity. I told her nothing at all about what I was planning, of course. I dressed carefully in pantyhose for modesty, then in one of my new, sexy bras -- though with no breast forms, as instructed -- and my new slip, then the Ann Taylor blouse Aileen had recommended. And a marvelous denim skirt I loved, a full skirt that fluttered on my calves when I walked. It did marvelous things for my morale, I don't know why. Clunky-heeled shoes. Light makeup, but a smoky look around my eyes. I was excited. Is this what a romantic glow feels like? It was like a young girl's first date! Who was I going to meet? My buried self, finally emerged as a gorgeous, sophisticated young woman! "Bye, Rick!" Melanie said at me as she headed out the door, not bothering to look back. "See you Sunday, I'll phone if later. Don't get into too much trouble!" "I'll try not to!" I called to her. "Enjoy yourself!" "I intend to," she answered. And she was gone. One last look in the mirror. I was quite presentable, better than passable, but I didn't mean to be seen anyhow in this locale. A glance outside to check that there were no neighbors walking their dogs or doing yard work. Then I took up the purse I'd filled the night before with my wallet, keys, compact, and lipstick, everything a girl needs, and stepped outside. And I was outside, in daylight! I looked in every direction and claimed my dominion, the whole world seen while dressed as a woman, to be experienced as if I were a woman! I twisted my hips as I looked back at our front door, and my skirt swirled in response. I felt so girly! I felt like dancing. My heart felt so full! And the weather was perfect! I'd set my hair even though I knew it was going to be completely redone -- I wanted to look pretty going in, to impress Hannah as Aileen had suggested. I wondered what my curls looked like with sunlight shining on them. I smiled to myself, and knew that my smile at least was smoothly delineated in lipstick, and wondered what that looked like. I felt ... dainty! I sat down on the car seat and swung my legs neatly inside, and drove off for what I was sure would be the most marvelous day of my life! My heart was pounding. I was so strangely happy. It was like waking up on your best birthday ever! Today I would become one of many women! At the Salon, anyhow. I'd look as feminine as was possible for me! So I'd also feel as feminine as I could. I'd often glanced yearningly through windows into beauty salons whenever I passed any, so I had some idea what to expect. In any major department store, but especially in an upscale store like Lordly's, the Beauty Salon resembles an opulent, high-tech bordello. There are mirrors and sinks everywhere, and luxurious couches and chairs done up in pale purples matching the operators' gowns, and counters and shelves are heavy with bottles, salves, pomades, creams, lotions, powders, and jewel colored spritz liquids. The original pale yellow walls provided by the landlord were scarcely visible. But most daunting as I turned from Lordly's wide entrance hall into the Salon's reception area was the purposive activity everywhere. This Beauty Palace was as crowded as any anteroom in Hell where immoral women are being prepared for their more strenuous adventures in sensuality further down. Only 9:00am, and already women everywhere. It was a beehive of small arm movements by attendants, of bodies bending and twisting over other bodies, of women scrutinizing themselves intently in mirrors, turning their heads and torsos back and forth repeatedly. Many older women sat very still in their chairs, looking straight ahead while an operator in a pastel purple gown leaned over them, fussing thinning hair into high curls and curves. Other women lay back on lounges, soothed by music, faces masked with wax or plaster or black mud. Some younger, stunning girls with perfect features were sitting lined up under globes and helmets attached to the wall as if they were interstellar travelers waiting for their journey to end, meanwhile glancing listlessly through beauty magazines that had nothing to tell them. Some women were perched at small tables with their hands gracefully extended, fingers drooping, while a pale-purple clad woman opposite bent to push back cuticles and file and paint their nails. The place was jammed. I could almost smell the concentrated femininity, the musk of women preparing other women to do what women do powerfully and have always done. A rich perfumed scent hung in the air. This was no place for me! But it was exactly the place for me! A receptionist in pale purple with her eyes heavily made-up was seated behind a reception desk near the hall opening, where I stood with my mouth agape. "May I help you, Miss...?" she asked me. "I'm ... Erica" I remembered to say. "And I'm married. So I suppose I'm 'Ms.' Erica." I was babbling to cover my nervousness." She was uninterested in my self-conscious chatter. "You're married?" she asked. "But aren't you the ahh...Erica that Aileen ...? Aileen doesn't usually ...." She decided not to finish either sentence. "Well, as Aileen says, there's a first time for everything, I suppose," I replied, to bring the conversation back to something I understood. I wondered what it was that 'Aileen doesn't usually ....' Did I want to know? What was I doing here? "This is my first time," I added. "So I understand!" she said. "Isn't that wonderful! Well, never mind, you'll soon be one of our regulars! We're going to do such wonderful things for you! Miss Hannah's left some quite specific instructions." "Miss Hannah isn't here?" "Oh, Miss Hannah's much too busy. She's in charge! But we all know what to do. Especially with any of Aileen's ... special women. You'll love what she's planned for you. Don't give it another thought! This way, Erica!" Threading my way through a forest of women sitting or lying back at tables, stations, or couches, wriggling sideways once or twice, I followed the receptionist to an empty salon chair. It seemed to be a cross between a dentist's chair and a barber's chair, variously adjustable but with flat arms where someone could do my nails while someone else was working over my hair, and a basin for wetting or rinsing combs. "Here, dear!" She tossed a pale purple nylon sheet over me, and snapped it around my neck. "I love your blouse, Erica," she said. "Ann Taylor, isn't it?" "Yes," I said. I was feeling very content. She was treating me like a member of the club. Coddling me. Just the way I wanted to feel. "April will be right with you. This will take quite a bit of time. I hope you aren't expected anywhere until the afternoon." "I'll be fine," I assured her. I wondered what "this" included, but I was in their hands. I settled back in the chair and smiled to myself. Almost three hours later I was dozing, still in the same faintly euphoric haze. I'd lost track of the rolling and combing and tugging and washing and soaking and wrapping and drying and brushing and spraying first one girl, then another performed on me. They were all sweet and polite and businesslike, but with the intimate friendliness women show easily to each other. "Could you tilt your head slightly, please, dear?" and "Now the other hand, if you don't mind," and "Oh, yes, honey, you will love this, it's *you,* it really, really is, wait till you see it!" was what they were saying to me. Then I heard what I realized after a moment was Aileen's ripe, confident tones just behind me. "Erica, have you been enjoying yourself?" "I think so," I replied before I was fully awake. "Well!" Aileen said. "That's fine. Let me see! O my, yes! You should have done this years ago, honey!! Look at you! I must say, Erica, it makes all the difference!" I'd hoped it would. Shyly, I asked her, "You think now I look real? That I can pass?" "My dear, a real what? Pass? That word! No real woman 'passes,' Erica. She's herself, someone with her own life! I thought you knew by now! Passing isn't a matter of appearances. It's how entitled you feel. A man with pierced ears, makeup, manicure, pedicure, heels, a skirt, and a hairdo will still look like a man if he can't persuade himself he's a woman, a very specific kind of woman, his own kind, and then take it for granted that's what he is! She is! It's a matter of conviction! Its very subtle. Women know that's what they are, and never doubt it for a moment. So of course they 'pass.' Do you know that's what you are, Erica? Do you feel like a woman?" I felt subdued. "I try to, Aileen." I felt chastened. "I'm sorry! It's just that...." "No, no, Erica! Don't cringe! No excuses! Be proud! You need to look like a woman who's accustomed to wearing expensive clothes, but you'll also need to remember that such women don't think of them as expensive, just well-made and tastefully designed. They feel confident! In possession of their own world! Don't you?" I looked into a mirror for the first time since I'd begun dozing off, and was shocked by what I saw! When I sat down I'd had straight brown hair that fell to my shoulders -- I'd roll or curl it at the edges to give it softness. The effect was youthful, also a bit wistful. Too young for me? No longer! Now I had crinkle-curled blonde hair framing my face, streaked as if by the suns of tropical resorts, as brassy and lively as any playgirl's. Hot to trot! And my face? I'd previously cultivated a dark, dreamy appearance, but now my whole expression was bright, animated, full of pzazz! My mouth was a rich cherry red and full-lipped, its corners tucked into a secret smile. Huge dark eyes appraised me, lightly amused, as they stared out at me from under thinly arched eyebrows. Very feminine, very self-assured. I was a blonde who'd had lots of fun and looked forward to more. I felt a pang of fright. This wasn't me! It certainly wasn't the woman my wife was accustomed to not seeing! How could I explain this to her? I shook my head to issue a great cry, "No!," but before the sound could emerge, under my hair I felt something jangle. I pulled back my tresses and saw two large gold hoops dangling from my ear lobes. They penetrated my lobes. They'd pierced my ears! "She's just what you asked for, Aileen," April told her. "No clay or wax based cosmetics to clog her pores and rub off. The foundation we're using now is like a flawless coat of paint -- lightly blushed. It should cover beard growth like Erica's for days and days, and it can be freshened or replaced with an ordinary facial sponge! The tinting dyes on her lips and eyelids have penetrated her skin several layers down by now I should think -- they'll last a month, easily. The liner around her eyes even longer -- don't you love that smudged, shouldering look? All of the cosmetics the kind professional models use, as you requested, nothing to smear