The Fourth Season free porn video

The Fourth Season by Cindi Johnson March 2007 e-mail: [email protected] The First Season: Autumn -------------------------------- Preoccupied with beauty, Mike failed to hear the soft sound of approaching footsteps. "Hon?" Mike froze. He felt as if a knife had slowly, painfully, pushed into his stomach. Pam's one simple word, a word imbued with longtime affection, was today a question with no answer. Dressed in a pale yellow dress, his wife's dress, Mike sat before a mirror at his wife's vanity table, carefully applying deep red lipstick onto his male lips. He wore a light brown wig whose hair lay softly against his neck. He'd already applied a nice coat of foundation, as well as dark eyeliner and mascara. His nails were painted red with fingernail polish, the same shade as his lipstick. "Hon? Is that you? Oh, no! Please, God, no, anything but this. Oh, no, no, no..." Mike felt the pain, the hurt, emanate from Pam, his wife of seven years. In the mirror he observed her face, stricken with surprise and shame. Why had he done this, his mind screamed; why had he hurt her, his life's one and only love? "How could you?" Pam asked, her voice rising. "How could you???" Mike said nothing. He lowered his gaze to the floor; his face turned red from embarrassment and shame. Mike was silent simply because he didn't know what to say. How could he explain? After all, he didn't understand it himself. Pam interpreted her husband's silence as indifference, as if she didn't truly matter in this marriage of theirs. At the least, not as much as his..., his perversion. If she did matter, she reasoned, surely he wouldn't be sitting at her makeup table transforming himself into a woman. Enraged, Pam grabbed the item closest to her, a small ceramic trophy their young daughter had won at a soccer practice, and flung it at her husband. It grazed his head, protected by the wig, then hit the large mirror, which shattered into a million pieces. Pam began to cry and ran to her seated husband, tore the wig off his head and tossed it on the ground, then attacked him. The red fingernails of her right hand scratched Mike's neck, drawing blood, blood the color of her husband's lipstick. Mike quickly rose from the chair and grabbed his wife's wrists, holding her firmly. Pam spat in his face. After a moment she broke free of his grasp and, without saying another word, turned and left the room. Mike could feel the tears streaming from his eyes as he listened to his wife's car leave the driveway, tires spinning. The Second Season: Winter --------------------------------- Season 2, Part 1 Michelle looked at the clock. Twenty minutes before two; time to leave. Michelle stood and carefully inspected her image in the full length mirror. Her entire body trembled as she looked at the image: a young woman, tall and slender, wearing a flower print skirt that hung to her mid calves, accentuated by a pale yellow, short sleeve Liz Claiborne mock-neck top. Sheer panty hose covered her silky smooth legs, and on her feet were stylish open-toed black heels, not very high at just one inch, but sexy as only a woman's shoes can be. Michelle looked closely at her face; her makeup was perfect and there was no trace of facial hair. She pursed her lips as if she were Marilyn Monroe; the bright red lipstick she'd applied somehow made her lips appear fuller, softer, maybe a bit flirty. Her hair, the same wig which Pam had torn from her head some three months before, now stylishly framed her feminine face. Michelle was stunned, truly stunned. Never before had she emerged from her gender prison with such beauty. Until today, she'd never believed she could truly pass as a female, but now, to her amazement, she realized she could. She could! Michelle put on her light jacket before taking one final look at her reflection in the mirror. The silver bracelets adorning her wrists jangled musically. She hung the strap of her purse upon her shoulder and left the room. Michele wasn't worried about walking to the car, which was parked a half-block away; surely nobody who saw her would suspect that she was, physically if not fully psychologically, male. Never had Michelle/Mike felt as happy, as proud, as she did at this time, yet never had she felt as terrified. Doctor Mora had asked Michelle to look her very best for today's appointment, believing that Pam would be more likely accept Michelle if she appeared to be a typical woman, rather than a man wearing women's clothes. Michelle remained deeply skeptical of Dr. Mora's plan, yet she hoped beyond hope that the doctor was right, that today would mark a new beginning in his marriage. He needed Pam more than anything in this world. He could not imagine life without Pam, life without their four year old daughter Amy. He could not conceive an end to their sacred union. Season 2, Part 2 "Really, Pam, you must give this a chance. Please. At least it will allow you to make a definitive decision." As she spoke Dr. Mora leaned forward a bit on her chair, towards Pam. The psychologist wore a pale green tailored business suit, with pants instead of a skirt. She was a nice looking woman, about 35 years old, with dark hair and rosy cheeks. Even though her eyesight was good, she wore glasses, thinking they made her appear somehow deeper, more thoughtful. She had decorated her office in a feminine fashion; its walls were painted in soft hues, and a vase of fresh cut flowers sat on a table in the middle of the room. "I just don't see that this will help anything, Doctor. I don't! I don't want to see my husband looking like a woman. Why would I? I already saw him like that once, and nearly threw up. That's why we came to you, Doctor, so that I'd never have to experience it again. Not ever." "Yes, Pam, I understand. But all the research I've done ? and since you and Mike came to me, I've done a lot on the subject ? all my research indicates that Mike will not be able to change. Crossdressing, you see..., it will always be a part of him. There's just no way around that." "OK, I understand that he will continue to have thoughts about, well..., about wearing our clothing. I don't like that, doctor, not one bit! But I'll try to live with it. I will. What you should do is to make Mike able to resist those...., thoughts." "Resist them, yes," the doctor replied, slowly, as if she were thinking the matter through, "but for how long?" Pam's response was immediate and definite. "FOREVER! That's how long! Forever! I don't want a husband who wears a skirt, a husband who wears pantyhose! I don't want to go through life wondering if my man is wearing my bra under his shirt!" "But Pam, please. At least consider it." "You tell me, Doctor, would you want your husband to wear panties?" "I'm not married, Pam." "You know what I mean, Doctor. How would you feel?" After a long pause, Dr. Mora sighed, then replied. "To be honest, Pam, I wouldn't like it. Not at all. I suppose I'd leave him. My fantasies ?like yours, Pam ? center around strong, handsome, muscular men, virile men, and it would be difficult, maybe impossible, to reconcile such fantasies with a man in a dress. So yes, I understand you, Pam. More than you know. But still, as your counselor, and as Mike's counselor, I must offer you the best advice available. And for crossdressing, all research indicates it is generally harmless to a marriage if ? and yes, it's very big if ? if a wife can allow her husband to dress occasionally. Not often, just enough to relieve his building tension. I'm not saying you should participate, that might well be asking too much of any wife. But think about it, Pam." "Well, Doctor, I can't allow that. I won't accept any crossdressing by my husband. Period!" "Not even to save your marriage?" "Not even to save my marriage." Pam turned her face, now red with anger, away from Doctor Mora. They were both silent for about a minute before the doctor spoke. "OK, Pam. I've scheduled this meeting today between you and Michelle as a last ditch effort to save a troubled relationship. I thought that if you met Michelle in a more neutral situation, in my office as opposed to your bedroom, you may, just may, come to accept Michelle. Maybe you'll come to like her, just a bit. Enough so that she's no longer a threat to your relationship. I've met her, you know. As Michelle, your spouse is not a terrible person. She's actually quite pleasant." "This Michelle you talk about is not a woman, Doctor. He's my husband." "Yes Pam, I know. This is all so difficult to put correctly into words. Look, if you do not want to meet her, then I'll call her on her cellphone right now, tell her to go back home and change. Next week, you and Mike can come in together and we'll talk about where to go from here." Pam rose from her chair and paced back and forth across the room. She stopped and stared at a painting on the wall, a reproduction of Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World" showing a young woman wearing a simple threadbare dress, sitting on a field, facing a rundown farmstead. Pam thought how, like Christina, she longed for simple things: a real man, a home, a stable and solid family. But now this unimagined force ? crossdressing ? had stolen her hopes. She seethed with anger over the injustices of fate. "OK! OK!" Pam said. "I'll meet this "Michelle" if you think it might help matters. I do want to save my marriage, Doctor Mora. I want you to understand that." "I do understand, Pam," replied the doctor. "And I know it is difficult. Maybe too difficult." Season 2, Part 3 Michelle checked the time; she had another half hour before her appointment with Dr. Mora. Seeing a Starbucks ahead, she pulled her car into the lot. A good cup of coffee would be nice, she reasoned. Feeling oddly exhilarated, she carefully exited her car, again draped her purse strap over her shoulder, and with heart pounding entered the store. It was empty save for the two barristas and one customer, a blond woman wearing a nurse's uniform. "How may I help you, ma'am," asked the Starbuck's worker, a young Hispanic girl with shoulder length black hair and sultry dark eyes. At first Michelle was confused; she'd never before been addressed as ma'am; in fact, Michelle had never before been out in public. "Ah.., yes, ah..., may I please have a small dark coffee?" Michelle, her voice barely louder than a whisper, tried to use a feminine tone. "Sure thing, ma'am. That will be $1.75 please." The girl's pleasant reply surprised Michelle; apparently the girl did not realize that Michelle was something less than female. Michelle set her purse upon the counter, fished out $2.00 and handed it to the girl, then put the change in the tip jar. She took her coffee to a table by front door and sat down; Michelle noticed the nurse briefly look towards her before returning her gaze to the magazine she was reading. The nurse, like the barrista, apparently was unaware of anything odd about the woman in the coffee shop. Michelle carefully sipped her coffee. A woman! At last, Michelle had shown her true self to the world, and had been accepted as a woman! She felt as if she were on a cloud, as if God Himself, perhaps to atone for having created a male of unsure sex, now sought to grant His creation a brief moment of joy, a mere taste of what all real women take for granted, of being accepted as female. Michelle noticed the red lipstick stain on her coffee cup. Her lipstick on a coffee cup! Never before had she seen any object as beautiful. What work of art, what masterpiece, could possibly compare with this simple red mark made by Michelle's own lips in this public venue? An utterly amazing thought filled Michelle's mind: the idea that she could possibly exist in this world, accepted by others. It didn't really matter to her whether others accepted her as a crossdresser or as a real female; she only wanted to be able to choose how she would look and act; to choose, when desired, to be the woman she knew she was. As she savored the moment, sipping her coffee, Michelle looked out the window, across the six lane roadway and the parking lots, towards a black granite building, four stories tall, within which his wife awaited her arrival. Please God, she thought, please let this meeting work. Let Pam accept Michelle even as she loved Mike. Let this meeting be successful. Michelle realized that she had, in a way, put her future, and her family's, into Dr. Mora's hands. She'd had misgivings about the doctor, but now she was willing to risk all for the hope of being accepted as Michelle. Season 2, Part 4 "Before we begin, Michelle, may I offer you any refreshments? Coffee or soda?" asked Dr. Mora. "No thank you, ma'am. I stopped at Starbucks on my way here." "You did?" Dr. Mora said with a surprised tone. Michelle noticed a startled expression flash across Pam's face. "Yes, ma'am." "Well, OK," Dr. Mora said after a pause, "then let's begin. I've met with all of you one on one: with you, Pam, and you, Michelle. And with Mike. Our goal is common; we all, and I include myself, want to save your marriage. To that end, first, I'd like you, Michelle, to introduce yourself to Pam." Michelle looked at Pam, then at Dr. Mora. "I..., I'm not sure I understand." "Michelle, although Mike has known Pam for years, intimately, he has never shared this one aspect of his life with his wife. And it is an important aspect, is it not? After all, it now threatens the continuation of all which both of you hold dear. So, tell us now about Michelle, her history, her importance to you, you know..., about Michelle." Michelle, somewhat embarrassed, since she hadn't expected this, hesitated before beginning, trying to gather her thoughts. She glanced at Pam and noticed that she was wearing brown slacks with a tan turtleneck sweater. Odd, he thought; Pam rarely wore slacks. "I'm a crossdresser. I've always had this..., attraction..., for females. I mean, in a way I'd prefer to be like them, like girls. I'd like to wear the clothes they wear, enjoy the accessories they take for granted ? you know, things such as earrings, bracelets, necklaces, purses ? and be able to do some of the many little things which women do so naturally. Like walking with a bit of a wiggle, and highlighting my looks with, say, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, nail polish...., all that girl stuff. It's not a bid deal, you know," Michelle continued, now looking at Pam's eyes, searching for a hint of forgiveness. "I'm able to function just fine in this world, as a man. I don't see that my occasional crossdressing should worry you so much." "What do you..." Pam started to interject before Dr. Mora immediately cut her off. "Go on, Michelle. Tell us, when did you first have these feelings?" Michelle took a deep breath and, while staring at Pam's hands, her slender fingers adorned with pale red nail polish and the wedding band he'd given her seven years ago, hands which sat gently upon the tabletop, she continued her story. "Well..., I can't recall a time when I didn't have these feelings. It's not like they just appeared at puberty or something. I just cannot recall a time when I didn't want to be a girl. I've always admired girls..., no, I mean, I've always envied them. When I was in elementary school, I often wondered why were they allowed to wear dresses, to be cute, to be so..., girlish..., while I, as a boy, was automatically denied the same. I wanted to be like them, but I knew the consequences would be..., drastic..., were I ever to do so. So I kept it to myself." "Michelle, when did you first act out your..., wants. I mean, when did you first wear girl's clothes?" probed Dr. Mora. She jotted notes on a pad of paper so as to appear more professional. "Again, I can't recall. As far back as I can remember I would, in secret, put on my mother's clothes, slip into her shoes, or even wear a cousin's underwear. I even used to make skirts out of old pillowcases. I distinctly recall doing this even before puberty, years before puberty. That is, before I was able to come." "Come?" asked the doctor. "Come.... You know..., ejaculate. So I must have worn female clothes, and had feminine inclinations, when I was very young. Like I say, probably since the day I was born, or even earlier. But again, like, it wasn't a problem. No one knew. I did just fine as a boy. I was as tough as any kid." Mike glanced plaintively at his wife's eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes, and noticed what seemed to be tears. "So you want to be a girl?" Pam blurted out. "You want to be a woman?" "No, Pam, no...," Michelle protested, "not in the way you mean." Dr. Mora again attempted to control the discussion. "Pam, according to experts in this subject matter, a man who enjoys dressing in women's clothes is a transvestite, whereas a transsexual is a man who feels he is a woman trapped in the body of a man." "Yea, yea, I don't care about all that," Pam said, her voice trembling. "I want to know..." Again Dr. Mora interrupted Pam. "Please, Pam, let's be calm. Now Michelle, tell us, do you, well..., do you feel like you're trapped in the wrong body. Like you should have a female's body?" Michelle sighed as she realized the gulf, the chasm, which existed between her comprehension of herself and the limited understanding the two women had of transgender matters. "No...," she said, her voice hinting of exasperation, "it's not that simple. I don't believe there's a bright line between transvestites and transsexuals. Not at all. Maybe there's no bright line between any male and female, for that matter. It's much more blurry than that, don't you see? "The idea of someone being trapped in the wrong body is.., well..., it's just ridiculous. Kinda like saying I'm really brown-eyed but have somehow been wrongly given blue eyes. Really dumb, in my opinion. No..., we are what we are, plain and simple. I'm not trapped in the wrong body. I'm comfortable with my body; how could I be otherwise? And if I were to have a sex change - which I won't ? it would be to enhance - to modify - my body, not to change it into a new and different body. Look, you don't say to someone who's had a nose job that now she's a "new person", in a "new body", do you?" "So, you're a transvestite, then?" Dr. Mora probed. "No! No! You don't understand, do you? I'm just me! Just me. In some ways I wish I were female, yes, that's true. It's true, damn it! But then, Pam often wishes she were rich, and sometimes she even wishes she was Italian, for God's sake. It's normal to sometimes want to be different than we are, isn't it? What is the big deal? If it doesn't interfere with one's life, what's the big deal?" "Maybe we don't see this as clearly as you do, Michelle," Dr. Mora said. "Please relax. Now, tell us, how would you best describe yourself: transvestite or transsexual?" "Neither! I absolutely refuse to go there. Can't you see? I sometimes, oftentimes, wish I could be like a girl, maybe even be a girl, and I choose to act on that wish at times by transforming myself into the appearance of a girl. Doing so gives me a sense of peace, a spiritual sense of peace, which is just..., just beyond description! So what does that make me? I don't know and I don't care. The real issue is that my crossdressing is not a threat to our marriage. It's not! My love for Pam is limitless and unconditional. I'll do anything for Pam, and I'll do anything for Amy. Anything!" Pam spoke, tears streaming from her eyes. "Then don't be what you are. Don't be a crossdresser, or trans-whatever! Be a man!" "Now Pam, let's..." Dr. Mora said before Pam cut her off, speaking ever louder. "No! It's my turn! I've heard from this..., Michelle. But you're not Michelle. You're Michael! You're a man, aren't you? So why are you sitting here wearing a skirt and carrying a purse? Men don't carry purses, do they? No they don't! So if you're willing to do anything for me and Amy, then quit being what you are. That's what I want!" "Pam, please, let's consider compromising on this, OK?" Dr. Mora said, trying to use a soothing tone of voice. "Maybe you could let Michael dress up once in a while, maybe once a month, or even once a year. He could do it on his own; you could leave with Amy for a weekend. There should be some way to work this out." "What! Leave town knowing that my husband is wearing my bra? That he's stopping by Starbucks, wearing a dress? Wondering whether he's carrying tampons in his purse. Wondering if..., if..., he's with another..., another man. You tell me, doctor Mora, wouldn't you worry if your husband were out and about in drag? Wouldn't you?" Pam's voice was now shrill, accusatory. She felt that the two of them were blaming her for the problems with the marriage, and she wasn't having any of it. "But Honey, please, please!" Michelle spoke softly, her cheeks now wet with tears. "I'll do whatever you want. If that's what it takes, I'll never, never dress up again. I promise, my love. You mean everything, everything to me. Please!" "No!" Pam exclaimed, "Even if you don't dress up, I'll know you'll be wishing you could. I'll know my husband wants to be a girl. How am I supposed to feel about that? How am I supposed to just let that slip from my mind? I don't get it..., you ? both of you ? act like I'm at fault for not allowing my sissy husband to play dress up. Well fuck you both! Fuck you all! You want to be a girl, Michael? Well be one! I don't care! I don't really care!" Out of control, Pam rose from her chair, took Michelle's purse from the tabletop where Michelle had set it, and tossed it across the room, spilling Michelle's lipstick, compact, mascara, brush, and loose change across the office floor. Without another word she left the office. Michelle sat, shaken by what had just happened. Neither spoke, neither doctor nor patient. Michelle's sense of urgent expectation had burst, leaving a rather foul, sickly-sweet taste in her mouth. After several minutes, a shamed and saddened young lady rose from her chair and proceeded to gather her purse and its contents from where her lover had cast them. "What now," Michelle asked rhetorically after some minutes of silence. "It's over. It's over." "I..., I don't know..., Michelle..., I'm so sorry, Michelle," Dr. Mora said in a quiet tone, her voice breaking. "I hadn't anticipated this..., outcome. I'd hoped Pam could..., that she would..., possibly accept you..." The doctor's voice trailed off into silence; rarely in her career had she been at such a loss for words. "Maybe...," she continued after a long pause, barely audible, as if she were speaking more to herself than to her patient, "maybe it's too much to ask of Pam..., too much to ask of any woman..., to accept you..., to accept your ..ahh..., your feminine characteristics...; maybe it's just far too much to ask from us...." Michelle barely heard the Doctor. She stared at the picture on the wall, at Christina and her bleak world. Michelle saw herself there, alone, seated in that open field, hoping against hope..., wanting and needing a love which wasn't hers to have. Her gaze, her life, captured into Christina's world - it was all too much. The scorned mis-creation of Our Only Lord began to weep, uncontrollably. Michelle's tears caused her mascara and eyeliner to run, giving her a gothic, ghoulish look. The Third Season, Spring ------------------------------ It was past four in the morning. The television flickered with images, but with the volume muted these were ignored. A half-full bottle of vodka sat atop the television. Once again, for what must have been the twentieth time, Mike read the court's decision, now a public document available to all. He focused again upon the seventh and final page, which included the following statements: "Due to Michael Grant's crossdressing, as described on pages 4 and 5 of this document, and acknowledged by Mr. Grant, this Court deems him unfit as husband and as father." "Because of irreconcilable differences between Michael Grant and Pamela Grant, in particular differences arising from Michael Grant's desire to dress in clothing of the opposite sex, the Court terminates this marriage, effective immediately." "Michael Grant is hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $2,000 per month, effective immediately." "Effective immediately, and henceforth, Michael Grant will have no contact with Pamela Grant. Any violation will result in criminal charges against Michael Grant." "So as to prevent Michael Grant's crossdressing from negatively affecting the development of Amy Grant, the sole child of this marriage, Michael Grant is henceforth prohibited from any and all contact with said child." "This Court strongly encourages Mr. Grant to enter a Christian-based treatment program designed to eliminate the perversion of crossdressing from his personality. However, the prohibitions against contacting his former wife and his child will remain in force, forever, regardless of any such counseling." Mike took his switchblade knife from his pocket. The blade emerged, razor sharp, upon his touch of the triggering mechanism. Holding the knife with his right hand, Mike plunged the point of the blade into the palm of his left hand until the tip protruded through the back of his hand. He pulled the blade out; blood, deep red blood, flowed from the wound. Mike held his hand above the Court document, letting blood drip upon the papers. Soon his blood obscured the Court's written wisdom. Mike thought that had he not lived in Texas, home of right-wing fundamentalist Republican judges, things could have been different. Up north, say in Vermont or New York, a judge surely wouldn't tear a child from its father, not even from a transvestite father. But Texas was different. In Texas, bible-thumpers ruled. "Even God sometimes makes mistakes," Mike muttered, repeating his wife's words to the judge. And how did the judge respond? "Young lady, please don't hold Our Lord Jesus responsible for your husband's shortcomings." Mike was so angry he wanted to spit in the judge's face, but he didn't; looking back, he wished he had. "The damn bastard has no problem with killing others' kids in a fool's war, yet has the nerve to moralize about my life," he muttered angrily. "Life sucks," Mike muttered. "This country, this world, this entire universe, all so beautiful, so elegant. But not men. And not women." Mike turned his hand over and with indifferent curiosity gazed at his fresh wound. Odd, he mused, how he felt no pain. Blood pooled upon the table, although the bleeding slowed. Mike tossed the knife upon the floor, rose from the chair and walked out onto the hotel room's balcony. Blood dripped onto his worn T-shirt and jeans, his bland male clothes, and onto the beige carpet. From his vantage point, twenty-three floors up, the lights of Dallas spread to the horizon. Stars scattered across a cloudless sky with only a sliver of golden moon above. "Anyway," Mike said to himself, "Michelle is already dead." Cornered by God's cruelest creations, knowing neither acceptance nor glint of love, Michael chose escape. It took less than a moment to vault the railing and end his life. The Fourth Season, Summer ----------------------------------- Another very warm day was ending in Dallas as the sun, setting on the western horizon, offered promise of some respite from the 103 degree temperature. Pam, nearly ready for her date, buckled the straps of her high heels, then stood to gaze at her image in the full length mirror. She wore a simple yellow dress, her favorite, its skirt falling to three inches above her knees. Her gaze focused upon her left cheek; after a close inspection she sighed with relief; the CoverGirl foundation successfully hid the bruise made yesterday by her boyfriend, John, when he shoved her against the refrigerator. John's latest outburst did concern Pam, a bit, as did his indifference to, and occasional animosity towards, young Amy. Still, Pam reasoned, John was a good catch and she anticipated marrying him in the fall. He is a "real man", she reasoned, and as with all real men there are downsides a woman must accept. Like many men, John's speech was often foul, he drank too much, tended towards violence, and had already put on too many pounds. Still, Pam knew that there was no chance that he'd turn out like Michael. She could not picture John, as fat and sweaty as he was, ever fitting into a dress. No, John and Michael were not alike, not at all. John drives a large pickup, whereas Michael had driven a small sedan; and while Michael had preferred listening to classical music and watching public television, John sticks firmly to country music and sitcoms. Michael was..., well..., maybe too sensitive, while John is coarse. No, Jan thought as she gazed upon the reflection of the delicate, pretty woman in the mirror, John's no sissy. At that same moment, across town, the judge who had, one could argue, decided Michael's fate, addressed the wealthy white masses at a fundraiser for his bid to become a Texas Supreme Court Justice. To near- hysterical applause, he attacked "liberals" and their "homosexual agenda", thereby stoking the crowd's innate feelings of superiority. Meanwhile, some twelve hundred miles to the north, a few miles south of the Canadian border and west of beautiful International Peace Garden, a wayward fox cautiously entered a small cemetery, its eyes searching for evidence of bobcats or coyotes. Michael's grave was there, as were graves of many of his ancestors and that of his sole sibling, a younger brother, who had died at age eleven when he slipped below thin ice covering a nearby lake. Weeds and brush encroached upon the graveyard; soon, in a matter of years, one could imagine it being engulfed by nature, its essence hidden from all except those willing to work at clearing, however temporarily, a tangled mass of prairie grasses. Michael had found a peace and acceptance which had eluded him during his 31 years of life. Coyotes cared not about crossdressing, and the harsh North Dakota plains were unconcerned whether the dead interred within was transvestite or transsexual. He hadn't had, nor would have, any human visitors. Who would come? Surely not the wife who'd rejected his love. Nor would his daughter: she would merely place Michael first upon a lengthy list of those who had let her down, who had abandoned her to herself. The fox took refuge in front of a tombstone, curled into a ball of fur, and slept, as did, in a different manner, the boy-girl buried some six feet below. The End