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Cycles By Dimelza Cassidy An aging cross-dresser meets a young, beautiful attorney. Their anxious connection causes Bill to revisit his shrouded past, and Cynthia to examine her present condition. As their relationship grows, will they find personal contentment and a future --- or will Bill's darkest secret destroy both of them. This story doesn't contain any forced feminization, magical transformation, or explicit sex. It will be boring as all hell, except for?those who want to read a story. The Meeting Damn, it's half past three: and here I sit in traffic. If they don't clear the accident or whatever is causing the problem, I will be late for my four o'clock appointment. As a child, my mother and brother had always made me late for things. I had to run to be on time for school because my brother used the bathroom to study. Mother would wash a pot with her coat on while she and I were trying to leave to go somewhere. My ex-wife would always start a conversation when I headed out the door to catch a train for work. I finally lived alone, and had promised myself that I would never be late for anything. My therapist would start the clock on my session at four whether I was sitting across from her or not. I had returned to counseling to once again attempt to come to terms with recurring nightmares about the stupid job I left through early retirement. I hadn't been able to cope with the politics. I had outlived my usefulness. My skills as a trouble shooter in a world that wouldn't own up to its "trouble" were termed "no longer needed." I also wanted to deal with my damn cross-dressing. I would have thought that I would have outgrown the urge to wear evening gowns, make-up, and stiletto heels. One of my biggest fears was that I would fall off my heels and break an ankle. The traffic started to flow so I arrived at the converted warehouse that was now the Mental Health Institute with five minutes to spare. I loved modern medicine's attitude. They seemed to think that if you sent the weirdo cross-dresser to a clinic and packed him in there with the rest of the whack-jobs, that you would "cure" him in three, maybe five visits. You couldn't spend money on mental health because the results weren't measurable. Pills, MRIs, X-Rays, and injections were - and preferable to the bean counters. "Bill Johnson. I have a four o'clock appointment with Debra Singer." The receptionist, Miss Personality, accepted my payment and motioned for me to have a seat without looking up or making eye contact. I took a seat on one of the pine benches, picked up a magazine, and struggled to read under the dim lights while waiting to be called. The clinic owners had spared every expense so clients couldn't see each other as it would take away from the cattle-yard like ambiance. Ms. Singer appeared at her office door and waved to me to enter. Her youthful face suggested she was barely out of school, but she was nice enough and was trying to be helpful. She hadn't batted an eye when I had told her that I was a cross-dresser. In fact, she had asked me to come to a session dressed. I told her I wasn't that brave. Instead, I came dressed as a middle-aged motorcycle rider bent on reclaiming his youth. In a hurry to start my session, I carelessly brushed against an attractive thirty-something woman who was also waiting to see a counselor. Her stylish gray two-piece business suit with a mid-calf length pleated skirt and fitted jacket suggested a professional. The red and blue silk scarf and black three-inch heels would have sent a strong sexual signal to me a few decades back. "Excuse me," I said, trying to be courteous, yet not wanting to start a conversation. The look on her unresponsive face confused me. As I entered Ms. Singer's office I glanced into the wall mirror. In my rush to be on time, I had forgotten to remove my make-up. I said shit about a dozen times as I sprinted to the men's room to wash my face. The woman I had bumped stared at me as I dashed by. I scrubbed my face and wondered what she had thought. Had she guessed I was a cross-dresser? Maybe she thought I was an actor; maybe even an aging punk rocker. Something must have registered; she continued to stare as I returned to Ms. Singer's office. "What was that all about?" Ms. Singer asked, as I took a seat across from her in the President Kennedy-like rocker. "I had to wash my face. I had dressed earlier today and forgotten to remove my make-up." "Were you afraid of what I would say?" "No. I trust you." "Then why wash it off?" she asked. "You, I trust, but no one else." "Let's talk about that. What difference would it have made if someone other than me saw the make-up?" "I don't know." I searched the carpet for imperfections. "Ok. So you wore make-up to the session. Did people react to you when they saw you riding your motorbike with make-up on your face?" "They didn't see it. I didn't take off my helmet with its tinted visor until I was in your building. Your receptionist and another client were the only other ones to see me. I don't think they noticed." She nodded and wrote something on her pad. "Would you feel more comfortable if you wore one of your evening gowns to a session?" she asked, while she continued to take notes. "I don't know. Maybe." I repositioned myself in the chair. "Then come to the next session wearing your favorite gown," she said with little emotion. "I can't come here dressed. I would have to change in your office." My whispered answer was barely audible. "Why are you afraid to come here wearing a gown?" Her question sounded clinical rather than judgmental. "It would attract attention." I swallowed in an effort to control my rising panic. "That's the last thing I want. Think about it. I walk into the waiting area wearing a satin gown and one of my fellow whack-jobs notices, takes exception to a man wearing a dress, and then splits my head open. I really don't want my head split open." Our conversation turned to corporate politics and my feelings of rejection. Its tone was complaint. Ms. Singer liked to book double-sessions so we finished up at half past five or so. I gathered my helmet and jacket and headed for my motorcycle. As I walked across the parking lot, the woman I had accidentally jostled earlier stood near my Honda. She looked elegant in the fading sunlight, arms crossed; a lit, unfiltered cigarette dangled from her right hand. She reminded me of a co-worker from three decades back. Marion Douglas had been in her mid-forties and nearly twenty years my senior. She dressed professionally, wore copious amounts of make-up, and smoked unfiltered cigarettes. The cigarettes were always stained with her deep-red lipstick. Marion, the staff, and I had gone out for celebratory drinks one night. Between the bourbon and her magnetism, she and I were soon kissing and exploring each others' body. Marion gave me an incredible blow-job. We worked together for about another year or so before she resigned to take a job with a local law firm. The woman appeared agitated as I approached. She looked at me. I guessed she was hoping to find traces of make-up. "I'm Cynthia Jacobs." She extended her hand. Not knowing what else to do, I accepted it. "Bill Johnson. Are you okay? Do you need help?" "No. I'm fine. I'm curious. Were you wearing make-up before?" I summoned false courage. "I'm a cross-dresser." I'd hoped to scare her away. I didn't want to talk to her. For that matter I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted to think about my session with Ms. Singer. She took one last draw on her cigarette before crushing it out. "What's cross-dressing?" "I like to wear women's clothing ..." I blurted out, "... make-up, wigs, bras, girdles, nylons, and heels." "Why would a handsome man like you want to wear women's things?" "Because I'm a perverted, weirdo/freak." As we spoke I readied myself for the ride home by unlocking, starting the bike, and putting on my helmet, jacket, and gloves. I hoped the sound of the engine would overpower her voice. "You don't look like a pervert or a freak. I would really like to know why you dress yourself as a woman." I should have ridden one of my other bikes, one with the louder exhaust system. I mounted the bike, raised the side stand, shifted the bike into gear, flipped down my visor, nodded my head, and rode off. Glancing back at her in the mirror I noticed she still hadn't moved. She fumbled to light another cigarette. I pulled into my drive twenty minutes later still upset with myself for having exposed my secret to a complete stranger. Despite being angry I felt I had accomplished something. I had told someone that I cross- dressed. Cynthia Jacobs hadn't taken a swing at me or called 911 to report a pervert on the loose. Nothing had changed except me. *** I spent the next few days in my garage workshop repairing a motorcycle for a friend. I didn't advertise. My repair business came to me by word-of- mouth; there had been a lot of mouths spreading the word. As I adjusted the drive chain I noticed that my idiot mailman once again had trampled his way across the lawn and handed me my daily dose of junk mail. He was a pleasant dope of a man. Why had he programmed himself over the years to cut across lawns, instead of using the driveways and sidewalks? His lack of respect for others' property probably didn't make his route any shorter. It was something he had convinced himself to do that was in no one's best interest. I sifted through the mail and spotted a letter from a local, rather large, law firm. I wondered if I was being sued, and if so, for what. The envelope contained a handwritten note and Cynthia Jacobs' business card. She asked that I call her. Interesting, I thought. In this day of electronic everything, why would someone send a letter? She might have old-world manners, or maybe someone had beaten Amy Vanderbilt's "Complete Book of Etiquette" into her head. I waited ten days before I called her. I had hoped that maybe she had forgotten about the whole thing. I had spent some time thinking about her. Her eyes haunted me. They were big and bright, but so sad. Why would an attorney with a prestigious law firm be so sullen? She probably had a nice car, a condo at the right address, and a line of guys waiting to date her. She hadn't been wearing a ring, so maybe she had been recently divorced. Whatever it was, it had driven her into the same assembly line mental health care I received. Thursday afternoon at two o'clock I was listening to her voicemail message. "You have reached the office of Cynthia Jacobs. I am either on my phone or away from my desk. Please leave your name, date, time of day, your telephone number, and a brief message, and I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you for calling...." "Hello. Bill Johnson. I received your note. How did you get my address? Give me a call. Use my cell 838-383-8383." My phone vibrated at a quarter past three. "Hi! It's Cynthia Jacobs. Can we get together?" After pausing and receiving no answer she continued. "Could we get together for coffee tomorrow? How about cocktails? Perhaps Sunday brunch?" She sounded urgent. "Why do you want to see me?" I asked. "You're attractive and you have a great presence," she said. "Plus, I find you interesting." "I don't understand." "I like the way you walk and talk. I like your positive body language; it reveals your extreme confidence." "Do you really think that?" I made no effort to hide my astonishment. I wasn't sure what all her observations meant, but I assumed that she wasn't going to take rejection. "Okay. Sunday brunch. Man-Do-Can. One o'clock." I didn't give her directions to the restaurant. She and the law firm's investigator had found me and they could find Man-Do-Can. Each morning, before starting my motorcycle repair work I would dress in one of my numerous evening gowns. I loved evening gowns, especially gowns from the fifties. They were elegantly feminine and reminiscent of a simpler time, a relaxing time. I would then change into my shop clothes and spend the remainder of the day repairing yet another motorcycle. It was getting a bit boring changing out stock, exhaust-systems for loud ones. They didn't increase horsepower or performance; they merely annoyed people. Money was money and the customers, no matter how stupid, were always right. I kept hoping that my small advertisement in a magazine devoted to vintage motorcycles would yield some race-bike work. Until the race-bike work came to be, I would have to survive on the rich, urban biker trade. They had money to spend, so I took it. *** Dressed in jeans, t-shirt, riding boots, and leather jacket, I went out to the garage and readied one of my six motorcycles for a ride. I chose the one that Lou Reed sang about in his song "New Sensations." "...I took my GPz out for a ride... the engine felt good between my thighs...it was forty degrees outside...oooh... new sensations...." At half past eleven I departed to meet Cynthia. I turned what should have been a thirty-minute journey into one that exceeded an hour. My ride took me through the lower-mountains in western New Jersey in what was horse farm country, and then down toward the river and on to Man-Do-Can. I arrived at the restaurant at the same time as Cynthia. She was driving a BMW 3 series convertible; a typical young attorney's car. If she made partner, she would trade up to a Mercedes. She would be driving a Bentley after she made senior partner. She stepped out of her car, and mesmerized me with a friendly smile. "Hello," I managed. She was wearing a yellow halter-top sundress, sandals, and sun-glasses. Her auburn, shoulder-length, hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. I wanted to look into her eyes to search for the sadness that I had seen when we had spoken barely two weeks ago. "Hello, Bill," she said. She was holding one of her lit, unfiltered cigarettes in her right hand. Her fingers were delicate. Long and slender. Piano-player hands. Not like my short fat nubs. "Do you mind if I smoke?" "Burn ... if you like" She took one last draw then crushed it into the sand-filled container. The hostess asked if we wanted smoking or non. Cynthia looked at me. She had placed her sunglasses on top of her head. Her eyes still spoke of misfortune. "Smoking," I answered for the both of us. We were led to the outdoor seating area. The Island Jazz Band was playing and the waiters were refilling the brunch selections. We took our seats and Cynthia lit another cigarette, while the waitress took our drink order. Cynthia asked for a Bloody Mary and I ordered a Ginger Beer. Cynthia finished the cigarette, crushed it out, and then lit another. She took notice of the frown on my face. "You don't approve of women smoking?" "It doesn't bother me." When I was her age I had smoked the same brand. "I started smoking in law school. One of my law professors offered me one. I took it and I've been smoking somewhat heavily ever since. I like the unfiltered ones." I imagined her picking bits of tobacco from her teeth or spitting them from her mouth. She was pretty and sexy enough to pull it off, if she did. The more I looked at her the more I saw the unhappiness in her eyes and a certain frailty. Perhaps she used cigarettes as a crutch, the way I used cross-dressing. I wouldn't dare ask. I imagined saying. "Cynthia you hide behind your cigarettes the same way that I hide behind dresses and bras and heels." That would have been a great icebreaker. Maybe I should have asked her. I was hell-bent on ending our relationship before it started. Whenever she attempted to start a conversation, I would give abrupt one-word answers, or not answer at all. Her eyes flashed anger, so I kept at it. Finally, she let loose on me. "Are you wearing a bra, lace panties, and pantyhose under your jeans and t-shirt? Is your bra red? Perhaps purple?" I assumed that she knew that she had hit a nerve and was certain that she would strike another blow to keep the wounded from healing. She then did something that I hadn't expected. She looked me in the eyes. "Could we stop the nonsense and have a nice brunch?" she asked. "Could we just talk to each other like human beings -- instead of barbarians?" A tear rolled down her cheek as she took a sip of her Bloody Mary. She then attempted to light a cigarette, only to realize that her lighter had stopped working. In disgust she got up and headed toward the ladies' room. I smiled to myself. I didn't want to start a relationship nor did I want to date casually. I wanted to fix motorcycles and cross-dress. Cynthia Jacobs, Attorney-at-Law, didn't fit into the equation. Cynthia returned. Her eyes were puffy. "Why are you trying to get rid of me without giving us a chance?" She was no dummy. "Can we start over?" she asked. "I told you that I find you interesting. I admire your strength and character." She had to be kidding. I had no strength. I was hanging on by a thread. I was trying to come to terms with corporate rejection and cross-dressing. "How could you say that?" I asked. "You know nothing about me." "You were quite the banker in your time. You had a reputation for being gentle but ruthless. You took down the mighty and never lost the bank's money. You ran a division and when the bank chose to sell off bad loans, management moved you to a no-win position, at which point you took your retirement package and left." "Very good. You left out the bits about having to choose between demotion and termination, but then again you and your investigator probably haven't had sufficient time to really go digging through my closet." She smiled. She was good. Likeable in her own way. "Bill, how did you get involved with motorcycles?" "Didn't your research reveal everything? Okay, it started in my twenties and I stayed with it. I like motorcycles. I own six. I like to repair older ones because they represent a kinder, simpler past. The newer ones symbolize big business' attempt to capitalize on the menopausal baby- boomer market." She laughed. "When you told me about the older models your eyes twinkled, your posture straightened, and your voice became clearer. I wish that I had something like that, something to make me excited about life, something to dream about." She paused for a moment then stated matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm in counseling." That accounted for some of, but not all of, the unhappiness in her eyes. "If I don't make partner," she said. "I'll probably lose my job. I don't want to be unemployed, but at the same time I hate my job. I hate being a bankruptcy attorney. People use bankruptcy to tax plan. I hate the partners, the associates, the politics, the in-fighting, and the back stabbing. I admire you. You left it all behind." She started to cry so I handed her a tissue to dry her eyes, and then gently placed my hand on hers. We ate our meal. I enjoyed a Portobello mushroom sandwich while she devoured a vegetable wrap. We ordered coffee and shared a slice of key lime pie while listening to the jazz. The backdrop of the river and its waves touching the shoreline added to the serenity of the moment. "Could I see what you look like dressed as a woman?" "Why?" "I'm curious why a man would want to dress as a woman." "If I knew the answer to that I wouldn't be seeking therapy and we wouldn't have met." She laughed her gorgeous laugh. There was something behind those eyes that interested me. I wanted to find out more. Maybe it was all a trick to humiliate me. Maybe she wanted to lure me into dressing. Once dressed, all of my customers would emerge from my garage and laugh at me, refuse to do business with me, and then have me arrested for perversion. Could that have been her plan, or was I just plain nuts? "Can I see your other motorcycles?" "Another time." Damn. I had suggested that there might be another time. It was well past three when we paid the bill. "Cynthia, do you realize that you haven't smoked a cigarette in almost an hour?" She laughed. "I forgot all about smoking once the conversation turned civil." I handed her a booklet of matches, and then she promptly lit a cigarette as we walked to her car. I closed the car door after she slid in and reached in through the window to pat her on the head. "Drive carefully," she said. "You should have said ride," I countered. "You drive a car, but ride a bike." Revelation It was a rainy Tuesday when I had my next session with Ms. Singer. I told her about my brunch with Cynthia and my failed attempts to scare her off. "What were you feeling, when you told this complete stranger that you're a cross-dresser?" "It felt good. By telling her I admitted it to myself. The more I said it - the more I believed it. I guess that I'm okay with being a cross- dresser. It's the fear of discovery that bothers me." "You're my first cross-dressing client. At times I have difficulty advising and guiding you." "I guess we'll learn together. You could start a whole different practice that specializes in cross-dressers. Debra Singer, analyst to the cross- dressing world. By the way, no charge for my business consultation." Ms. Singer gazed at the shopping bag with a Yamaha logo that I had placed next to the rocking chair. "Bill, were you out motorbike shopping?" "Ah, no, I brought something to change into. You suggested that I should come dressed. Would you mind if I changed?" "By all means. Perhaps it will help us further understand your needs." She left to stand outside the door. I changed quickly as I was wearing foundation garments under my jeans and sweat shirt. I inserted the breast forms, slipped into the red chiffon evening gown, pinned my wig to my own hair, lightly powdered my face, added a touch of lipstick, and stepped into my four-inch heels. I tapped on the door. "I'm ready." She re-entered the office and looked at me as I stood in the center of the room. She studied me with one hand on her hip and the other hand on her chin. "If you wanted to pass, you'd have to shave your arms and chest," she said. "I don't really want to pass. That's not what cross-dressing's about for me. I don't want to deceive anyone. There's enough deception in life. I don't want to add to it." Ms. Singer took her seat in her leather, high-back chair; I took my place in the rocker. I was careful to smooth my dress as I sat. "You did that in a very woman-like fashion." Her surprise at my graceful movement irked me more than I would have thought it would. "Thank you. I practice," I said. "I know that it took a great deal of courage for you to dress for our session today, but I'm curious. Why did you pick such an elegant evening gown? It's not appropriate for the time of day or the occasion." As she spoke I searched amongst her diplomas, faded wall hangings, worn carpeting, reference books, and children's toys for an answer. "I'm not sure that you will understand, but dressed like this I feel whole. In my mind, an evening gown is the personification of the ultimate woman." "Do you want to be the ultimate woman?" "That will never happen. All that I will ever have is the clothes. This is the closest I'll get. Does any of this make any sense to you?" "It's beginning to. Do you think that women are trying not to be women?" "Why do you ask?" "The way you're dressed, your make-up ... many women would try for something less glamorous." "Perhaps. Maybe this is my way of saying that women should stop hiding their feminity." "You do understand that women dress as they do because of comfort and functionality." I reflected on her red turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and black flats. Up until that moment I hadn't really considered her outfit. She looked more androgynous than feminine. "I know most women dress down for comfort, but it's their state of mind that sometimes gets me." "Are you equating attire to state of mind?" "Something like that," I answered. "So, in essence what you're saying is if I dress as a woman I will think like a woman?" "You're already a woman so you have no point of reference. I, on the other hand, am not a woman so if I dress like one, maybe I'll be able to think like one?" "I lost you, Bill. First you say that it's the clothes, then you say that if you wear the clothes it will change the way you think. Which is it?" "If you and I traded outfits, would you think of yourself differently?" She did not respond. I continued. "I told you that it doesn't make sense. The whole cross- dressing thing doesn't make sense. That's why I'm here. It's driving me crazy!" "Interesting. By the way, I hate you," she said with mock anger. "Why?" I had thought that we were getting along quite well. "I could never walk around in four-inch heels." She stuck her tongue out at me and then she grinned. I laughed. "Practice makes perfect." "With our remaining time, let's talk about your former job. You mentioned that you continue to suffer from anxiety attacks?" "Sometimes. Not too often. I wake up at night in a cold sweat." "What do you think causes that?" "I don't know." I centered my quest for answers on the diploma hanging behind her. "I think that the attacks are all about power and guilt," she said. "Power?" She leaned forward, hands folded, elbows on knees, making direct eye contact with me. "Your last position at the bank demanded that you make decisions. Management above you didn't heed them. You had power, but couldn't use it." "True." Without knowing why I re-crossed my ankles and smoothed my dress. "It took great courage, and internal strength to leave a potentially health-damaging situation; the same courage that you showed today to dress for me. It takes a certain amount of power over oneself to have courage." "You think?" I sat straighter and taller. It had bothered me to voluntarily accept early retirement without putting up a fight. "You feel guilty because you believe that you deserted your staff." She again used her eyes to hold my attention. "I never thought of it that way." "You didn't desert them. You forced them to stand on their own and fight their own battles." Our session ended. Ms. Singer left her office. I changed clothes and left with her words in my head. *** After I returned home I sifted through my mail. Once the junk mail had been shredded and the bills filed, my attention focused on a letter from Cynthia's law firm. Her hand-written initials were on the corner of the envelope. Evidently Cynthia wasn't above a little corporate theft of the company's stationery and postage. Dear Bill: Please allow me to thank you for a lovely brunch. I know it started out badly; however, we did manage to salvage it. I thought about it and some of my words and actions may have angered you, so I apologize. I am attending the Bar Association's awards banquet hosted by the firm and I would like you to escort me. The firm will provide transportation. It's black-tie. Saturday October 30th at eight o'clock. A limo will pick you up at seven. Please contact me if you will be able to attend. Sincerely, Cynthia Good God, I thought, I haven't been to one of those in years. It was scheduled for the evening before Halloween. An appropriate day, as the guests would all be in costume: gowns, tuxedos, patent leather shoes, silk scarves, hats, and umbrellas. I could wear my blue sequin dress and be the belle of the ball and the talk of the town. I laughed to myself and dismissed the thought. I picked up the telephone and called Cynthia. "Hello Cynthia? It's Bill Johnson." "Bill! How are you?" "I received your note and I'm calling to say that I would be delighted to accompany you to the prom." "The prom?" "As I recall these functions are grown-up proms. By the way, there is no need to apologize. We tried to drive each other off by using our defense mechanisms. We gave it our best shot, but we've failed because we're going to the prom." "You're such a goof. Where did you get that twisted sense of humor? A grown-up prom? Really, Bill." She paused a moment to giggle. It felt good to know that she appreciated my funny side. "Could I ask you to take me on a motorcycle ride? I would love to try a ride on one. If I don't like it could we stop, and if I do like it, could we ride all day?" She sounded like a pleading child who wanted to go to the state fair and use all the amusement rides. She was so feminine and classy, yet so fragile. I wondered if she had the killer instincts needed to effectively practice law. I preferred her showing a bit of her child-like attributes. "Come to my house on Sunday at ten o'clock," I said, "and wear jeans and boots." I didn't give her my address because she obviously already had it. "Why do you write letters to invite me to things? There is such a thing as a telephone and I understand there is something called electronic mail." "I'm old school. I like to think that it's more personal to send a handwritten note. My note has the scent of my perfume on it, which will help you think of me. Could you smell my perfume over the phone or through a computer?" "You made your point. What makes you think that I didn't burn my tuxedo when I left the corporate world?" "You didn't. Did you?" she asked with curiosity. "It's hanging somewhere. One last thing before I go." "Okay," she said tentatively. "Please don't say ?Old School' again. It's become so over-used in the motorcycle world that I hate it." I hung up the telephone, went to my closet, and dug out my tuxedo. Over the years, it had come to represent all that was wrong with corporate America. I checked the fit of the blue-sequined evening gown. I would have a fall- back outfit if I changed my mind. *** As my watch beeped ten, Cynthia parked her BMW in my drive. I had prepared one of my Harley-Davidsons for the day's ride. She left her car and nearly ran up the drive. She wore designer jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt and stiletto-heeled, black boots. Her hair had been pulled back in a low ponytail and her make-up was discrete. The boots would make it hard for her to position her feet on the passenger's foot pegs. I blamed myself for not being specific about a particular kind of footwear. I offered her a leather jacket, helmet, and gloves. Despite its men's cut, the jacket fit well and accented her figure. I slipped the helmet over her head, and then fastened it. The gloves, although large, would do. The Cruzados's song "Motorcycle Girl" drifted through my mind. "....Motorcycle girl, I love you ... ain't it a shame...." I watched as she admired my other bikes. She looked in awe as she gently ran her gloved hand over the seat of one; a finger traced the outline of the gas tank of another. She stood with her hands behind her back to closely inspect yet another. Breaking her trance, I showed her how to mount, where to sit, where to place her hands and feet, and where to look while we rode. She absorbed it all, but then went back to her examination of my bikes. The engine sound startled her. I grinned, and then pointed to the passenger seat, mounted, and we headed off. At first, I could feel the tension in her body through the bike. As we rode on, she seemed to relax. "Do you want to go on?" I asked over my shoulder, after we had covered a few miles. She squeezed my hips with her knees. I took that as a "Yes." I took the long way, using as many tree-lined country roads as possible. The autumn colors were in full bloom ... and I wanted to enjoy the warmth of her body pressed against mine for as long as possible. When we reached the seashore, I parked the bike. I took two bottles of water from the saddlebag, and handed one to Cynthia. She removed her helmet and shook her hair loose, leaving me breathless. We crossed over the sand dune and walked along the deserted beach. "Could we rest a bit?" she said. "These boots weren't made for walking on a sandy beach." Her grin caused my heart to race and a bit of a stir in my jeans. We sat together on the sand. She lit a cigarette and let the ocean breeze flow through her hair. She sipped water between draws on her cigarette. Neither of us seemed eager to mar the beauty of the spot with mere words. "Thank you for bringing me here. I've never been to the shore in the fall. It's so beautiful and peaceful." She gave me a peck on the cheek. "Let's go back," I suggested. "I'll make dinner. We can sit out on my patio and relax." "That sounds lovely." She put the helmet back on her head, while I unlocked the bike, started it, readied myself, and then asked her to mount. I again favored country roads. They were less stressful with little or no traffic. No members of the performance-sedan set, no tailgaters or honking horns. The sound of the wind, the drone of the engine, and the hum of the tires rolling along the pavement provided a serene symphony. I stored the bike in my much too neat garage and directed her to the patio. She made a stop to wash up before stretching out on a plastic Adirondack chair. I gave her an ashtray, knowing that she couldn't go much longer without a cigarette. "Would you like a glass of wine, water, beer, iced tea, or lemonade?" I tried my best to sound like a host and not a hostess. "I'd love a glass of Merlot," she answered. Her helmet hair sparkled in the late afternoon sun as her approving eyes cast about my patio. As I readied the fish and a salad in my kitchen, she stared at the cloud formations. I wondered what she was thinking ... and more specifically if she had enjoyed the day. When the meal was ready I called to her and offered a seat at my dining room table. We ate in silence, other than a few words from her that praised the meal. She put down her fork and waited for my full attention. "My first motorcycle ride was absolutely delightful. I didn't think it would be as much fun, and I also got the chance to spend some time with you. Could we ride again?" Where was this going? It was our second meeting and a third one had been planned. Were we heading toward a relationship? I'm an old man and an admitted cross-dresser. What did she see in me? "I'd like that," I said. "The only thing better than riding my bike is sharing the ride with ... someone." Was I defining the beginnings of our relationship? "Great," she smiled. Then her face became quite serious. It glowed in the light cast by evening sun. "I want and need to understand you. You might think it strange, but I feel as if it's important to see you dressed." "What?" "I want to see you when you're wearing women's clothing." Her voice was friendly with no trace of sarcasm. "Why?" I asked. "I've been thinking about it and trying to imagine how you would look. You tried to use the whole cross-dressing thing to scare me off. I'm not frightened that easily. I think that in your own way you want me to see you dressed. Maybe you even need to have my approval - or someone's approval. I think that you're afraid to show me on your own, but you would be brave and show me, if I asked you." Maybe she knew me better than I did. She was sexy, classy -- and smart. What more could I want. Who in their right mind could walk away from a woman like her? Then again, I wasn't in my right mind, as evidence by my need for a therapist. "Give me about thirty minutes." She smiled her agreement. She said what she needed to, when she needed to. I liked that about her. Once I was in my bedroom I closed the door. There was no need to hurry. I showered, shaved, and applied moisturizer and make-up. My foundation garments included an ankle-length half-slip and two crinolines. Satisfied with my appearance in the mirror, I stepped into a circa 1950s, green, velvet evening gown. It had long sleeves, puffed-shoulders, and a high neck. I finished the look with patent leather shoes with three-inch heels and an auburn, shoulder-length wig. I thought for a moment that I might be emulating Cynthia's appearance as the wig color and style were the same as her natural hair. The dress was perfect; my make-up was applied as good as I could do it. I mustered all of my waning courage and headed toward the dining room. "Cynthia." She had been staring out the patio door watching the sun set. She turned and faced me. "Oh my God!" she stammered. "I'm sorry," I said, my facial expression bordered between embarrassment and shame. What had I done? "Sorry? There's no need for you to be sorry. It's just that I never expected you to look.... You look good. It suits you. That dress is beautiful. Where did you get it? Are all of your dresses like that? Oh --- I'm babbling. I'm so sorry. It's just...." I stood there listening to her go on and on. She was babbling. Was she putting me on? I had to know. "Be honest, I look like the horse's ass, don't I?" "Honestly ... your make-up needs a lot of work. It's childlike." She glided around me, with her hand covering her mouth. Was she holding back her laughter? Her eyes bore in on my wig, make-up, earrings, stockings, and shoes. I began to shiver. When I could take it no longer I went to the safety of the other end of my living room, mindful of not catching my heels in the rug or on the hem of my dress. "Cynthia, you're staring at me and it's scaring me. Are you okay with this or should I go and change?" She took her hand from her mouth and placed it on her hip, "Wow!" "I can't do this," I said as I headed toward my bedroom. "I'll change and...." "No ... don't," she said. "I know that it was hard for you to show me and I appreciate it. Bill, I can see that you're just as comfortable wearing a dress as you were wearing jeans. Oh, excuse me. Do you refer to yourself as ?Bill' or do you use a woman's name when you are dressed like this?" "It's ?Bill'. It'll always be ?Bill'. I'm a man wearing a dress, nothing else." I collapsed in confusion into my Queen Anne's chair, taking care to smooth my skirt under me before landing. Much to my surprise Cynthia took a seat on my lap. "Crinolines?" She laughed, as her weight crushed my undergarments. "I love them. Can I ask you something?" "Go ahead," I said, afraid of what was coming. "Why did you choose this dress? It's far and away, the most stylish dress that I have ever seen." She sounded complimentary. "I like evening gowns. I thought that if I was going to do this I would do it right. You're only the second person to ever see me dressed this way." I tried not to sound defensive. "With whom do I share this part of you?" she asked with acute interest. "My therapist." I searched the inside of my eyelids, not wanting to remind her about my mental illness. "Lucky her" "Don't be. You're in very select company." "Can I ask you something personal?" There appeared to be no way to avoid her cross-examination. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to," she said, "but how did all of this start? The dressing, how did it start?" "I can tell you when I started to wear bras and dresses, but I can't tell you why. I've been working on that for years." "Years?" "Counselor, you're badgering the witness." "Oh, Bill!" She looked at me with her big melancholy eyes, and then kissed me gently on the lips. Hers were soft. My body welcomed her and wanted more. Her passion increased as she forced open my lips and explored my mouth with her tongue. She broke off the embrace, looked at me, smiled, and then kissed me again with more passion than before. I pushed her away. She looked startled and confused. "No, not like this." She stood with a puzzled look upon her face. "Like what?" "Not like this," I said again. I wanted to make love to her, and I was sure that she wanted to make love to me. I headed toward my bedroom to take off the dress and make-up so we could be together. Why had I ever stepped into the evening gown that hung from my mother's bedroom door all those years ago? Why had I gone to the store as a young boy and purchased my first pair of stockings? Why wasn't I a normal man who deserved the love of a woman like her? Before I could start to change, I heard her start her BMW, and then back out of the drive. I chased after her, but caught myself halfway down the drive, and then frantically ran back toward my house so that my neighbors wouldn't see me. In my haste I caught my heel on my hem and fell forward. I pounded my fist on the concrete. How could I chase after her wearing a dress? I was cursed. I had proven to myself once again that cross-dressing would ruin me. If only I could have stopped. I retreated to my bedroom where I yanked off the dress and threw it into the corner. I flung myself down on my bed, and then stared at the ceiling until finally going to sleep hours later. *** It was Thursday morning when I next met with Ms. Singer. "Cynthia and I went for a motorcycle ride on Sunday. It felt good to share it with someone. It all came crashing down when Cynthia asked me to dress. My cross-dressing destroyed something that might've had a chance to be good." "What are you saying?" She looked puzzled. "Cross-dressing ruined my marriage. I keep insisting that cross-dressing's a fundamental part of me. It's ruining everything. I want to kill myself and be done with it." "Kill yourself over a dress? You're too smart and too good of a person to do such a thing. All of your self-degrading talk is adding to your self- loathing. You need to quit speaking negatively about yourself." Her jaw was set and her eyes flashed anger. "Try to understand that it's not the clothing that ruined the end of your day with Cynthia. She's attracted to you. It doesn't make a difference to her what you're wearing. And, I don't want you killing yourself over something as silly as wearing a dress." "I want to believe you," I said, after taking a moment to soak in what she'd said. "It doesn't make sense to me that wearing dresses is a good thing." It felt like I was pleading. "Listen to me." Her eyes were riveting. "Try to stop thinking that things are good or bad and think in terms of what is helpful or harmful to you." "I don't understand." "When you wear a dress while reading a book or listening to music, what happens to you?" She looked less upset. "Nothing. I'm relaxed. I enjoy myself." "Exactly. You are at peace with yourself and you enjoy a degree of serenity. Can you achieve those same levels another way?" It took almost a full minute for me to formulate an answer, as she patiently waited. "Maybe when I'm riding one of my bikes. I feel pretty good after a track day." "Then, for you, cross-dressing is a helpful thing." She leaned forward with hands clasped, index fingers pointing in my direction. I replied after another moment of silence. "It is easy for me to say the words. ?Cross-dressing is a helpful thing.' It's like saying that I love you. I just can't believe what I say. I want to believe it, but I can't." "Remember one thing and this is worth repeating. You, and only you, ruined your time with Cynthia. She was not disturbed by your appearance. You were disturbed by it." *** After our session ended, I called Cynthia. Her voice mail answered. "Cynthia, it's Bill. I have to explain. I pushed you away because I didn't want to kiss you while I wore a dress. I didn't reject you. Please understand. It's not you. It's me. It's the damn cross-dressing that's ruining everything." I hung up and returned home to begin work on a motorcycle. I could neither focus nor concentrate on simple tasks. I kept hoping that Cynthia would call. I kept berating myself despite Ms. Singer's advice. It was about four when I heard a car pull into my drive. It was Cynthia. She charged out of her car and into my garage, pushed me off my stool and onto the floor, straddled me, and then kissed me. We rose from the garage floor and headed to the bedroom. We made love. She was soft yet firm. Her naked body glistened. Could she fall in love with an old fart cross-dresser like me? I rolled out of bed and watched as Cynthia slept. Her chest gently rose and fell; she seemed to be smiling. I showered, and then went to the kitchen to think and to prepare some dinner. The time neared seven. Fixing chicken, string beans, rice, and salad, I opened a bottle of wine and poured myself a glass. I had just made love to an incredible woman. She appeared to be everything that I was not. Strong and gentle in her own way. She must be one hell of lawyer. "Hey you!" "You're awake." Cynthia was wearing my robe and held a lit cigarette. "Promise me," she demanded. "Promise me that we'll never let your cross-dressing come between us again." I nodded. *** The Wednesday after we had made love I called her. I had delayed calling her as I couldn't find words to express my thoughts. I could start a relationship with this woman yet I feared it. I couldn't decide if she craved me or pitied me. "Cynthia. Hi, it's Bill." "I know who it is, silly" "I'm going away for the weekend. I booked a track session with my riding club so I won't be around." "Oh. I thought that we could go for a ride this weekend." Her voice had gone from spirited to hush. "I would ask you to come along, it will be ass-numbingly dull. You would be standing around a lot." "Well," the spirit had returned to her voice, "could I come along and decide for myself?" "Don't say I didn't warn you," I said. "Meet me at my house tomorrow evening so we can leave early Friday morning. We'll be going to Virginia. It's about an eight-hour ride. *** Cynthia arrived at dusk on Thursday. She struggled with a huge suitcase and an overnight bag. "Where do you think we're going?" I asked. "We'll be back Sunday afternoon." "I never did this before, I don't know." She sighed. "I packed for a weekend trip. I have my essentials. Hair dryer, make-up, swimsuit, shorts, jeans, tops, dresses to wear for dinner, flats, and heels. The usual stuff." I laughed. "We'll be spending the nights in a tent and using sleeping bags." "Camping?" She groaned. "Yes." I swallowed. "Camping -- are you okay with that?" "I guess that I'll have to be," she murmured. We called it an early night after a light dinner. It felt good to be in bed next to a beautiful woman. It had been a long time since I had slept with anyone. It felt right. I had previously loaded my truck with the bike, tools, and camping gear. I added the cooler and my racing leathers, helmet, and gloves moments before we departed. *** Cynthia slept during the early stages of our trip down the ever boring routes 95 and 85 to Virginia International Raceway. She woke as I was about to stop for gas and lunch. She flipped down the visor and peeked into the vanity mirror. "God, I look like I've been to war." She sighed, while she combed her hair with her fingers. "I'm going to make some impression when your biking friends meet me." "You're going to a race track," I said impatiently. "Everyone will look like hell when the day is done. Don't worry about it. You look fine." We gassed up the truck, got a quick bite to eat, and continued our trip. We arrived at V.I.R. shortly after five. "Cynthia, the facilities are over there." I pointed to the clubhouse. "You can freshen up while I unload the truck." The V.I.R. clubhouse featured modern rest room facilities with tile floors and showers. Memorabilia depicting the track's history hung from the meeting room walls. "I'm okay. I'll help you." She sounded eager. We parked along side the pit lane, unloaded the truck, set up the tent, rolled out the sleeping bags, put down a tarp, set up the canopy, and parked the bike, the tools, and the cooler under it. "Are you hungry?" I asked. "There's a restaurant not far from here and, as I recall, it's not bad." "Let me make myself presentable." She gestured toward the clubhouse. "If we leave all your stuff here will it be here when we get back?" "It'll be okay," I said. "No one will bother it. Everyone here watches out for each other." She took her overnight bag and suitcase and headed toward the clubhouse. I watched her snug fitting designer jeans coupled with her stiletto boots accent the gentle sway of her hips. Sex wasn't the farthest thing from my mind. I did a double take when she came out. "Why are you wearing a dress?" I exclaimed. "Women don't wear dresses at the race track!" She pouted. "You said ?dinner' so I dressed for dinner." Regardless of emotion, happy or sad, there was that haunting despair in her southern Mediterranean eyes. I hugged her. "Come on, let's eat." *** As we drove the short distance to the restaurant she held my hand "Admit it. You like it when I'm dressed like this. Don't you?" "Yes and no." She smiled. "Judging by the bulge in your jeans, I think that it's more ?yes' than ?no.'" Damn her. She was right. Our meal was not exciting, but satisfying. As we headed back to the track, Cynthia snuggled next to me. "Thank you for bringing me along." I kissed the top of her head. She uttered a quiet moan. That night we used only one of the two sleeping bags. *** I awoke early, leaving Cynthia to sleep a while longer. At the sound of a running motorcycle, she popped her head out of the tent. "Did you sleep okay?" I asked. "What do you think, silly?" She chuckled. "There's coffee and donuts in the clubhouse, if you want." I gestured in the general direction. "When is it your turn to go on the track?" Judging by the excitement in her voice I wouldn't have been shocked had she bounced up and down on her toes and clapped her hands. "In a bit. I'm in the ?white group,' the old fart group." "I wish that you would stop saying that." With a tinge of anger she added, "You're not old." "Look around," I said with resignation. "Tell me that I'm not old." She glanced around the pits at my fellow club members whose ages hovered in the twenties, thirties, and early forties. She also caught sight of my fellow "white group" riders. "You're not old." She sounded sincere. "While you get your coffee and donuts, I'm going to change into my leathers. My group is up next." I headed toward the club house locker room. I met her outside the clubhouse. She was seated at one of the tables sipping her coffee and smoking a cigarette. When she caught site of me she started to laugh. I was dressed in blue-on-blue-on-white leathers with matching boots. "They don't fit you!" She pointed at my leathers. "You can't stand up straight in them." "They're made that way." I groaned. "They're designed to fit in a seated position. When I'm on the bike you'll see how it all works out." "What are those things on your knees?" She examined me as she had when I had worn that insane green dress. "Pucks. They protect my knees and the leathers when I stick my knee out to corner at high speeds. I use my knees to find the track surface so I know how far I can lean the bike over in a turn with out falling off the edge of the tire." "It looks like you've got something on your mind other than riding." She grinned. "What are you saying?" I asked. "The bulge in your suit." She pointed at my crotch. "Cynthia," I sighed. "It's a cup." "Oh." She laughed and blushed. Her na?ve questions were a pleasant distraction. I mounted and started my Ducati and headed down pit road, weaving my way toward the track and turn one. I love the V.I.R. north course with its seventeen turn 2.25 mile layout. It's technical and fast with deceptive elevation changes. It's not a track to try to go fast too early. After building up some heat in the tires, I searched for breathing points and a rhythm, and then picked up my speed. I began my braking for turn one at the four hundred foot mark. It was a bit early, but I knew in time I would rise out of the bubble brake, downshift and pop out my knee at the two hundred and then one hundred-foot marks. Braking aggressively, I prepared myself to "quick flick" the bike for the first gear one hundred-eighty degree right turn. Accelerating through the turn, knee slightly touching down head and eyes fixed toward the turn exit, I positioned myself for the second gear center apex left turn. I used the throttle to regulate my speed. I tucked in and charged down the short straight leading to another second gear center apex left turn. At the end of the short straight leading to the right hand one hundred- eighty degree turn four, I rose out of the bubble, dropped a knee, and used slight braking and a quick downshift. I short-shifted third, fourth, and fifth gears to avoid an acceleration high side thus allowing me to nip the curbing to straightening out turns five, six, and seven. With careful braking and downshifting to keep the bike settled I popped up from the bubble, dropped a knee and positioned myself for the uphill center apex right turn. I overcame the fear that comes from entering a blind left turn at speed at the top of the hill. Track position and memory served me well. The front wheel rose off the ground when I crested the hill. Tucked in, I nipped the curbing to straighten the turns at the top of the hill, once again short-shifting third and fourth gear before positioning myself for the down hill right-left-right combination leading to the three thousand-foot front straight. The one hundred-twenty foot change in elevation could be unsettling due to the temptation to target fixate the bottom of the hill and not focus on the three thousand-foot straightaway. It took trust in myself and my equipment to skillfully negotiate the tricky section. Riding this section correctly, resulted in an adrenaline rush that's beyond intoxication as it made the run down the long straight toward the start-finish line much more satisfying. I hadn't attended a track session in three years, yet I was pleased with my performance and felt that my decrepit mind and body still had the ability to push the bike toward its limits. I formed a smile beneath my helmet and I felt a stirring within the confines of my cup. As I returned to the pits and Cynthia, I stood up on the foot pegs and stretched my legs. She bubbled in absolute awe. The tire changing, the refueling, the suspension settings, the carburetor changes she drank it all in. "Getting bored yet?" I asked, as I dismounted, and then placed the bike on its track stand. "This is fabulous. Absolutely fabulous. When do you go again?" She did nothing to contain her excitement. "The order is red, blue then white. I go out in about an hour. Each group gets about thirty minutes. As I spoke I examined the tire wear and took tire temperature samples. "Do you want to help? I want to change the suspension settings and add some gas." "What do I do? What do I do?" Her excitement made it new again for me. With all of the nonsense going on in my life with the business and therapy I had forgotten the simple joy of my bikes. "Okay. Sit on the bike." "You're not going to make it go.-- are you?" She asked in horror. "No, just sit on the bike, put your feet on the ground, and then brace yourself so when I take it off the stand you and it don't fall over." I pushed the bike forward to roll it off the stand. Cynthia gasped. "You okay?" "I'm fine," she said, but her knuckles were white from the death-grip she had on the bike. "Now just sit there while I measure the height. Before I do that hold this in your hands." I handed her a filled-to-capacity gas can. "What's this for?" She looked puzzled. "You don't weigh as much as I do, so I have to replicate my weight to get an accurate measurement." I completed my measurements, and then took the gas can away. Then I held the bike steady so that she could get off. "What do we do next?" I wished that I could have bottled her enthusiasm. "While I hold the bike with no one on it I want you to measure its height." I showed her how to take comparable measurements. "Write them down on that pad sitting on the back of the truck." After she did as I asked, I sat the bike back on its stand. With her help I then made the necessary adjustments to the ride height. I turned my attention to the compression and rebound settings. When I was satisfied and had explained it all to her, I refueled the bike and headed out for my next session. The changes had improved the bike's handling so I brought my speed up to the edge of my comfort zone. I wasn't the fastest on the track, but I wasn't interested in lap times. I focused my attention on my cornering skills. Going straight the bike took care of itself. I would beat the others with my experience in and out of the turns where greater skill was needed. Cynthia's excitement did not wane as the day wore on. Her hypnotic eyes bordered on saucer size as she absorbed every moment of the day's events. She looked horrified as she witnessed a crash, but felt relieved as she saw the rider walk away. As I rode my last session, I caught a glimpse of her. She was standing on the flag stand overlooking the start-finish line. I smiled. As I completed the last lap she waved as I passed by. I washed up, and then changed clothes. The intense level of concentration had left me spent. It was much the same feelings I had after Cynthia and I made love. Cynthia washed up as well, and then changed into yet another dress. I shook my head and smiled at her utter sexiness. "We haven't known each other that long," she said, after we had eaten. "but during our times together, I've not seen you so relaxed and content. You really love what you are doing here at the track, don't you?" As she spoke I thought of what Ms. Singer had said at our last session. Cross-dressing caused me to experience relaxation and contentment. Did cross-dressing fill the gap between track days? Perhaps the two were inter-twined in some way. Did I need both to survive? "Yes," I answered. "Track days are fun." The Prom The day of the Bar Association's banquet had arrived and I had begun to prepare myself. I showered, shaved, and brushed my thinning hair. I inspected my naked, aging body and asked myself what Cynthia saw in me. I hadn't developed love handles, but I had grown lots of gray hair on my chest, arms, and legs. I wondered if I could perform as consistently as I had in the past. At seven o'clock the limo arrived and the driver escorted me to the car. Cynthia looked radiant. Her hair was set in loose curls gathered atop her head, but - she was wearing the evening gown that I had worn the night that I dressed for her. "My dress?" I asked, unable to speak above a whisper. "No, it's mine. Your dress is back in your closet. I only borrowed it for a bit when you were in the shower - after we made love and you thought that I was asleep. I put it in the trunk of my car. The next day I took it to a seamstress and asked her to copy the design. We changed a few things; raised the collar, added lace to it and the cuffs, lowered the waist a bit, and made the skirt fuller. We added three additional crinolines as well. The dress stands up by itself without hanging it. Don't you just love it? Bill? Are you there, Bill?" She leaned over and kissed me. We sat quietly as the limo drove us to the country club. Finally I found words. "Don't you think you over did it a bit? Do your have any inkling of the amount of attention you're going to get?" "Don't you get it, silly? I want to attract attention. I want everyone to see me with you." Was she an exhibitionist or was she in love? The valet opened the limo door when we arrived at the country club, escorted us through the French doors, and then directed us toward the terrace. I went to the bar for drinks while Cynthia mingled with her co- workers. When I returned she was conversing with a man who was approximately her age. "Cynthia, I got you a white wine spritzer." I handed her the drink and turned to him. "Hi, my name is Bill Johnson, and you are?" "Alan Williams. Cynthia and I work together." "Do you also practice bankruptcy law?" He nodded. "And you? Are you an attorney?" "Consulting. I'm a consultant." Since I hadn't volunteered additional information he excused himself and returned to his Barbie doll date. She had surrounded herself with aging partners struggling to convince themselves that she would gladly share their beds. I went to the bar for a second drink while Cynthia chatted with the partners and their guests. They all looked like they were stamped out of the same mold. Traditional tuxedos for the men and second-level designer wear for the women. Cynthia was unique. She had a gift. I marveled and envied how she engaged, flattered, and flirted her way through the attendees. Alan also worked the room. The obvious competition between them appeared intense. They both knew when to fold their arms to indicate dismissal. Their hands invited engagement. A finger on the cheek displayed thought, while rocking forward to feign interest, and laughing merrily at their victim's attempts at wit. I had participated in similar social competition. The heartache and anguish surrounding promotions, pay increases, and office location seemed like such a waste. It had seemed, at the time, like a matter of life and death. In reality it was life in death. I took my drink to the terrace's iron railing and stared off into the harbor. The sun had set and left behind a temperate October evening. To relieve myself of the tension caused by memories, I visualized myself wearing the dress that had inspired Cynthia's. She returned and placed her hand on my arm. "You okay?" Her voice was sympathetic "I'm doing fine." I lied and she knew it. "What are your thoughts? Dreaming of wearing a gown? Sorry, I shouldn't have said that." "Actually, you're partly correct. I have been thinking about putting on my gown. Then I realized it was time better spent imagining taking yours off." I smiled, leered, and then turned serious. "Mostly I was thinking how much I hate the corporate lifestyle. I detest it all." "If being here is bothering you, we can leave early. I can make some kind of excuse." She sounded concerned. "I'll manage. I watched as you and Alan worked the crowd. I could never do that. I tried many times, but just couldn't do it. It seemed so unnatural. You have a flair for it." "I can do it," she said, "but I'm not crazy about it." "But you can do it. It seemed so false to me; the air kisses, the unfinished conversations, the whispering after breaking contact." I quit talking when I realized how much I was criticizing her lifestyle. Cynthia hugged my arm tightly as I peered out at the bay. *** "Bill? Bill Johnson you old son of a gun." Carson Barker, the firm's managing partner had spotted me. I hadn't seen him in years. "Oh shit," I said to myself. He was one of the lawyers that Shakespeare spoke of when he wanted them killed. He had no concept of lawyering. He only wanted to have lunch, play golf, have cocktails, and back slap. The last thing I wanted was to talk to him. "I haven't seen you in years," he gushed. "How have you been? What have you been doing with yourself? What brings you here?" Carson spied Cynthia and mentally linked the two of us. His grin reminded me of the Jethro Tull song "Aqua-lung." "....Sitting on a park bench...Eyeing little girls with bad intent...Snot is running down his nose...Greasy fingers...Wearing shabby clothes...." I fought back a smile. "Bill and I worked on many deals together in our younger days." I cringed when he said younger. He had a vast vocabulary and picked his words carefully for impact. I wondered which of his over-sized teeth I would knoc