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See for Yourself by Vickie Tern "Here, see for yourself how it feels, honey. Hold out your arms." I did without thinking, not quite realizing and then not quite believing what she was up to, and before I knew it she'd taken one of her prettiest elastic and satin brassieres out of her drawer and whisked it onto my chest, then hooked it behind me where I couldn't reach and sat herself down again. Then studiously finished applying her lipstick as if nothing much had happened. I just stood there amazed. Wearing a brassiere. I stared down at the two partly empty cups on my ... my bosom I guess it was, and then at her. She looked up at me. "Still there? That answer your question? You'd better hurry and start to dress." With this bra on? What was she doing? "Of course you won't get the full effect on others that I get from wearing my bras," she said. "Unfortunately you've got no boobs for other people to admire. Nor will you get the full benefit to yourself, since you've got nothing to bobble any time you try going without one. Give some thought to growing something up there, enough to fill the cups and give you a figure, eventually anyhow. Little by little. I bet you feel the band binding on your chest. Is the pressure annoying or comforting? Both at once?" "Marsha, what ..." "Let's test it, sweetie. Since you're standing there, reach me that yellow pashmina up there on my closet shelf, would you? Yes, the scarf, that's it. Thanks. Now I'm sure you felt the pinch when you reached up and the shoulder strap stretched to accommodate you, then the elastic squeezed your skin as you lowered your arm again. Bras are like women. They pinch and squeeze as well as hug you all around." "Marsha, you did that deliberately. Why?" "What, hooked you into a bra? Yes, of course! Taylor, don't pretend it's your first time in a bra. I know how often you've rummaged through my lingerie drawer. I've always thought it rather sweet. It reminded me of what I used to do when I was little and eager to try on my mother's things, eager to be a big girl. But I always knew that some day I'd grow up to become a big girl and have my own bras and things. And you knew you never would, you poor dear. It's so sad, my hubbie wants to wear my clothes and can't except in secret. I wish you'd told me about it, I would have helped you. I have tried. You've never noticed how for months now the bras that fit you best have been the ones on top, the 38s, when I'm a 34 or 36 at most? I know you've been wearing the dresses and skirts and blouses I've bought you, the ones that fit you even though I'm two sizes smaller than you. These days hardly a day goes by without your trying on something of mine, I know that. Sometimes whole outfits, shoes and jewelry and all." I was appalled. She knew? "No," I said, shaken but trying to recover a certain minimal manly dignity. "I never noticed you'd laid out bras for me. Or dresses. But why did you just put this bra on me?" She turned toward me. "Because you want to wear one and I love you and it's about time we both did something about it." I was moved my that. My voice was a little choked as I stalled, tried to find something to say. I couldn't think of anything that really mattered. "You deliberately asked me to hand you that scarf so this thing would pinch me as well as squeeze me. Why that?" She looked directly into my eyes and then said, "Well, you do want the full experience, don't you?" What did she mean by that? What does she know? She laughed. "Oh, no, I didn't mean what you're thinking, baby, though you may well want that too -- I wouldn't mind, I really wouldn't, if that was what you really and truly wanted. No, all I meant was the experience of wearing a bra all day long and going about your business the way any woman does, doing everything that needs doing while wearing it. Feeling it surround and support you as you bend and stretch and twist, insofar as any man can feel supported who lacks tits." She glanced at me as if she knew there was no way I could disagree, and then she returned to her mirror to stroke on her mascara. "No I do not want the full experience!" I said emphatically. "Not even in that sense." She didn't even bother to glance her disbelief at me. It was true, I did want it, badly, I'd always been curious what it would feel like to wear a bra from dawn to nightfall instead of during the scant few hours I could find when she -- Marsha -- was unlikely to find me out. I wanted to experience the 'dailyness' -- that was what someone once called it -- of a woman's life. I'd tried to hide it from her, unsuccessfully it seems. Did she resent what I'd said, the original remark that had resulted in her abrupt 'See for yourself!' and swift enclosure of my chest in a brassiere? Marsha did have this habit of converting my innocent comments into seeming personal criticisms and then resentfully returning them in kind. I assumed it was a defensive reflex left over from her schoolyard days, from "Oh yeah, you're another!" considered an adequate return for insults offered. "Well, I didn't ask for the scarf just so your bra would pinch you. I did want it. I need it to wear it with this sleeveless dress tonight in case the weather turns chilly. Thank you for fetching it for me, dear." She smiled briefly at me and then began brushing her hair back rather vigorously, not looking into the mirror any more but instead letting her eyes linger on my chest. "You know Taylor honey, you do look kind of cute in that bra. There they are, teeny little girl titties waiting for their big moment, waiting to become big girl titties. That band does look a little snug on you, now I can see it for myself. And that's not your cup size at all. But it's the best we've got, I suppose, till we can get you a bra that's properly fitted. It does look pretty on you, I'll say that. Maybe tomorrow." Should I have told her earlier? Did she feel demeaned, as I'd always feared, that I was not the man she thought she'd married. I decided to return this discussion to my original innocent remark, the one that had somehow spurred this revelation that she knows about my dressing up. "Marsha, I was watching you put on your own brassiere. Something that women do uniquely and with grace. All I said was 'That must feel strange.' That's all. I meant it. I mean, it had just occurred to me, to be carrying those two heavy weights in front of you like that, caught up like softballs and held up by only those thin shoulder straps? That must feel strange. That had never occurred to me before. That's all. The same with all that stuff you're putting on your face right now, that must feel strange too. Maybe like spreading wax on your face, or a thin oil? I don't know. But you got annoyed, and came back at me with that sudden 'See for yourself!' I meant no harm." "Oh? Now you want to know how make-up feels too? You've never tried out my make-up whenever you got all dressed up to feel girly? Well, I know you have. I even know that this lipstick is your favorite. Here, pucker up!" She picked up a lipstick and rose from her vanity table and turned toward me. "No!" I said, alarmed, stepping back. "I mean, I don't know, I just...." "You don't? Oh yes, you do. You know how lipstick feels on your lips -- sort of sticky and smooth at the same time, isn't it? What you don't know is how it feels when other people see you wearing it. Isn't that so?" "No! I don't know!" Her voice suddenly modulated. It became almost gentle. "Oh, honey, I know, there's lots about being a woman you don't know. So much that makes it so worth while! For example, there's the way my nipples feel so marvelous when they're projected way forward inside a good bra. Unbelievable! You don't know anything about that yet either, do you?" I shook my head 'no,' hoping my denial would cover everything in sight. But I had to confess the truth to her, open myself and throw myself on her mercy. "A little," I said in a small, shamed voice. "My nipples do feel good in a bra." She paused, looked surprised, and then looked pleased. "Well, you have a natural talent for it then? I tell you what. You're feeling squeezed and pinched in that bra now? 'Strange' as you like to put it? Well, what say you wear it for the rest of this evening, all the way to Andy and Pam's and through dinner and so on, and then back here. I guarantee it won't feel strange by the time we're back here and getting undressed for bed. It'll feel perfectly natural, the same way your skin or any other part of your of your body feels right now. As if you'd always worn one. As if it was an ordinary thing, like breathing, for you to wear one. And that'll be the answer to your question. Deal?" She shook her head and her dark, brushed-back hair fell forward to arrange itself in soft waves all around her beautiful face. How did she get it to do that -- she now looked exquisite! Her eyes were now huge and dark, staring at me, waiting for me to agree. "Only the bra for now. I won't insist you wear lipstick or eye shadow, or wax or oil as you put it less elegantly. Or those dresses I bought for you that you seem to wear all the time. Not unless you really want to." "Marsha, when I said it must feel strange, it wasn't a question," I said weakly again. "It was only a random ...." She took my shifting the subject for agreement. "Good," she said. "A deal then. You'll find out for yourself how strange a woman's clothes can be and yet how ordinary. How easy it is to get used to anything. At least to wearing a bra." And she turned away, conversation completed. Her next concern was her dress. She studied it critically, held it up against her, and finally approved what the mirror showed her. It was tissue faille, I'd read that term just this past week in one of her magazines -- it flowed, with a clinging bodice above the full draped skirt, and there were pale yellow threads in the fabric that matched the yellow scarf. Its so-called neckline was designed to circle her breasts, only just barely, with a brief dip between them. A "princess" neckline, I'd learned it was called. And its shoulder straps were scarcely wider than her bra straps. She slipped the dress over her head and it rustled into place, then she immediately adjusted it to cover her bra completely. Decorum now achieved. "Next time I wear this, maybe I should leave the bra straps visible to show I'm still with it with youthful fashions?" she mused aloud to herself. "Or else wear a strapless bra?" She looked up at me. "Are you planning to leave your own bra straps visible, Taylor? You may be a little past the right age for that kind of self-declaration. People will accuse you of trying to imitate performers like Gwen Stefani or Madonna. Anyhow, you can't imitate them without lots of make-up!" "All right," I said. "Enough, Marsha. Would you kindly unclip this brassiere, the catch behind me, now? I can't reach it." She looked at me triumphantly, chin high, mouth a bit smug. "No." And again, more firmly, in a higher register, "No!" You want to know how it feels to wear a bra, wear that one till bedtime. Then you'll know. And that's that. I have spoken." She really had thought I was mocking her in some way, I suppose. I knew from occasional past experience that objecting or groveling at this stage, once Her Mind Is Made Up, would only harden her determination to make too much of what had been after all only a casual, really a trivial remark. Incautious too, given that I'd already tried on her bras secretly now and then. Who was I kidding? Lately, often. So I decided that wearing her bra till bedtime was something I'd do as if it were in fact trivial, nothing. Continue to hide from her how wearing any women's clothing was for me an act of fabulous erotic self-re-creation. It made me a woman. It turned me on. As she advised, I'd just do it, wear the bra and seem to forget it was on me. Ride it out. She got like this now and then. "I guess I can consider this thing an undershirt, kind of," I said, trying to take her edict in stride. "So I won't wear a proper undershirt tonight, it'd get too bulky. But I will need a striped dress shirt to hide whatever of this ... brassiere shows through the broadcloth." She reared back and let her jaw open ever so slightly, as if turning pale with horror -- it wasn't possible to see paleness on her face of course, not under her make-up. Her foundation and powder and blush and so on all contributed to the impression I'd had of Marsha from the beginning, that she was not only unflappable but ... perfect. That I was incredibly lucky to have won her affection. Her love. That despite her tendency to overdramatize everything, like right now, and despite her broody moods that could make even a weather report seem to her a personal rebuke, I loved her. I just did. She was smart, venturesome, funny, sweet, and ... well, beautiful. And she loved me. She was mine. We'd been married for three years now. Wonderful years. I should have told her of my ... self-pleasing habit earlier. But she'd found out anyhow, and it was an enormous relief that it didn't seem to matter to her. I felt grateful. "Stripes? You'd wear a striped shirt with a checked sport jacket?" she was saying. "With those pants you just put on a moment ago? And you expect me to be seen with you? No, wear a plain white dress shirt, and a plain dark-toned tie to go with it. I'll be downstairs, I'd better call Pam to tell her we're running a little late." "Why bother? We're her only guests tonight. You said it's just an informal look-see dinner and get together because we haven't seen each other for a while. I'll only be another minute." But she was gone. I took out a plain white dress shirt and slipped it on. As I started buttoning it I saw the lacy pattern of the bra cups underneath, a shadow visible through the material that hinted an unseen presence I'd just as soon leave unseen. I looked through my drawer for the pleated white shirt from my tux -- doubled layers of fabric would hide this thing I'd been somehow trapped into wearing. No, I remembered, it was off at the cleaners being washed, starched, and pressed, as befits shirts intended anyhow for only black tie occasions. Which this wasn't. Oh well, I decided. No worries. My jacket and tie will cover it. I checked carefully after everything was tied and buttoned and in place. I was right, nothing visible. I couldn't tell when I arrived downstairs whether Marsha's eyes loitered on my chest or not. "I prefer your jacket unbuttoned," she said reflexively, as I'd expected when I first buttoned it up. She always did. This time it didn't seem to matter to her, however. "Pam tells me she was just promoted," she commented as we headed out the door. "A fabulous new position." It was late afternoon in late Spring, balmy, no chill in the air at all, no real need for Marsha to carry her ... pashmina, if that's what she called it? I suppose she'd really taken it as a fashion accessory, to drape it gracefully around her shoulders and arms and so seem -- well, statuesque. Classical. As she was. But then, well, Marsha's classical even when she's naked in the shower. Maybe especially then. I sighed. "She's now in charge of the whole Northeast," she continued. "Not just this region. So she'll have to do a lot of travelling for a while. For months and months. No more tending to business from her home or the downtown home office, the way you do your work. Andy's going to be coming home to an empty house most of next month, and the month following, until she can get a grip on her problems out there and solve them. She hopes we'll fill in for her with him, have him to dinner often, include him when we're entertaining other people and so on, so he won't feel lonely." I wasn't too pleased to hear that. Andy wasn't the most favorite of my friends. Pam was Marsha's, they'd been close since college. Andy and I got along on each others' sufferance, mainly because the girls got on. He had nothing against me, made all sorts of overtures for us to get together on our own in fact, but -- call it jealousy on my part, maybe envy too -- he was a little too ... well, handsome in a boyish way, athletic, successful, a guy who had it all and long ago decided he was entitled to it all. The kind of hunk who seems to rebuke the rest of us just by existing, brim full of self-confidence, most of it justified. Well OK, I was being unfair. He was a decent enough guy. It wasn't his fault that everyone who knows him admires him and he concurs. I started the car. I'd forgotten the bra, but when I lifted my arms to the steering wheel I was again conscious of the elastic clamped to my chest and the tug on one of my shoulders. I was determined to pay no attention to either sensation. Marsha had assured me that in another few hours there'd be none. I could wait. "Remember to congratulate her," my jewel of a wife said, staring straight ahead as I backed down the driveway. "She's wanted this promotion for a long time." "Sure," I said. "I guess I'll need to congratulate Andy too, for the improvement he'll notice in his cuisine if we're supposed to feed him now and then." An attempt at a compliment to Marsha. Not that Pam was a bad cook, but Marsha, among her many perfections, was a great cook. She didn't hear it. "Oh, I won't have time to prepare meals for the three of us more often than a few times a week tops, while Pam's away. We'll eat out together a lot more often than that, I suspect. Most other days. Pam wants us to stay close to him while she's away, so she can feel assured he's in good hands. Or anyhow that he's not roaming into other hands. Lots of women around town would love to catch him on the fly." "I see," was all I could say. To remove him from temptation and keep him virtuous, that was what Pam wanted us to do for her. Suddenly Andy was a member of our family by default, and all because Marsha and Pam felt close. "I see," I said again. No, I didn't see. Not at all. He'd be around all the time. What would he be to me, a brother I never had? No, you feel close to brothers despite all the crap that brothers dump on each other while they're growing up. A friend? I could fake that up -- we had to. I was sure it would be an equal and opposite strain on him to do the same thing -- if I disliked him because I envied him, he knew it and he thought that much less of me for it. I even thought that much less of me for it. I was equally sure we'd respect neither ourselves nor each other for even attempting close friendship. We'd act like brothers only because we'd feel a sense of mutual obligation to pretend to care for each other. That's not good enough. I drove. Pam and Andy live about twenty minutes away, in a quite luxurious house. Marsha has a modest inheritance we think of as insurance against disasters that never happen, and we both earn good salaries and live comfortably, but not like Pam and Andy. Andy's family left him some large investments, and they spent the investment income as it came in along with whatever the income from the nominal work he performed. Pam did responsible work much like mine, analyzing sales patterns and recommending strategies to take advantage of them. She could be willful and manipulative, and her earnings reflected that -- they were far greater than mine even though we did similar things in the same sales markets. I supposed it was because the women's products she oversaw carried higher profit margins than the varieties of home products I supervised. But for whatever the reasons, they lived very well indeed, and they were accustomed to getting their way in everything. They had an open, easy attitude toward everyone, the way privileged people often do. Noblesse oblige I suppose. They often indulged themselves in ways we didn't approve, but no matter -- we were more or less friends. "Well, coming right along, aren't we dear?" Pam greeted me at the door. Odd way to put it, whatever she was putting, I thought as I stepped aside to let Marsha enter first. "Go right ahead," she told Marsha. "Andy's fixing us all drinks." She stood in my way so I couldn't follow. Obviously she wanted to say something to me in confidence. But I had no confidences from Marsha. Well, maybe she had something to ask me about Andy. Or about our work, looking at sales figures and telling sales personnel what we saw -- we'd discussed different analytic procedures a few times. I watched Marsha proceed down their hall, turn right, and disappear into their living room. "What you're doing, I think it's marvelous!" Pam said. "And I want you to know right now you have my full support. Both of us are simply delighted. Andy too!" "Support for what?" I asked, somewhat bewildered. "Doing what? I mean, you're the one with the new job and the new challenges and all that." "Nothing compared to the challenges you're facing, honey," she replied, seizing my arm with hers and hugging it tight while walking me down the hallway where Marsha'd just gone. Her grip was a little too intimate, I thought. A little too much the way she'd grasp Marsha's arm sometimes when they were strolling ahead of me and Andy at the Mall, dishing privacies like schoolgirls. "You mean the challenge of coping with Andy while you're away? Oh, congratulations, incidentally, Pam. That's great news, your promotion!" "That's part of it. He can be difficult at times, but you'll find he's a doll, mostly. And worth whatever effort you may want to bring to satisfying ... no, I mean ...," and she waved her hand vaguely, "well, I mean everything! There's so much happening that'll be new to you." I had no idea what she was talking about. She'd started drinking before we arrived? When we arrived in her living room I saw Marsha standing next to Andy and sipping a drink. Andy immediately held another one out to me. Bourbon on the rocks, he knew what I liked, the glass heaped high. Pam let go my arm so I could reach for it. I wondered if Andy had seen how she'd been hugging me and was himself wondering whether we had a thing going. He didn't seem the least bit troubled. Rather the contrary, he was flashing his most ingratiating smile at me. "Taylor, old buddy!" he was saying. "No, I can't call you that any longer, can I, you're jumping ship I hear. What'll it be?" "My drink's still bourbon, Andy," I said. " And that looks just like it." I couldn't quite figure what he'd just said or meant. "Here, this one for old time's sake and then we'll drink a few more to the future." I glanced at Marsha to see if she thought his remark as peculiar as I did -- she didn't, so I decided to let it go. Andy hadn't backed away. "'Taylor' is a name that swings both ways, same as I do," he said. "So that much won't change, anyhow!" He grinned. What in the world was he talking about? I looked again at Marsha and she only smiled at me reassuringly. "I'll go check the roast," Pam said behind me. She apparently didn't find this conversation weird either. "'Taylor' swings both ways?" I asked vaguely. After Marsha's earlier misreading of my earlier innocent remark, I wasn't going to introduce or ratify any new ideas into any discussion. "You mean women use that name these days as well as men? There's a lot of that going around lately -- 'Kelly,' 'Stacey,' and so on Not as many men using women's names though. Maybe old British androgynous names like 'Evelyn' and 'Leslie.'" But Andy was riding a riff, talking away. "Women find guys who swing both ways fascinating. As if it gave us a special understanding of them. They think that if a man likes the same thing they like, namely men, then we have a special ... sympathy with each other. They aren't wrong. I happen to like what they like, but they're also what I like. Before my marriage, when women found out I had their taste in men for some things, they'd relax with me, and then I could make out with them like a bandit. As if that made me a lesbian. Well, what could be better, a man who's as safe as all the gay men they've ever known, has even slept with some of them, a friend who's unthreatening and all that, and yet is also a man who can bring them into steady-state orgasm and then keep them there till dawn? We bisexuals are ladies' men and men's men too." He winked. "We've got the best of both worlds." Well! I was thinking. So Andy, God's gift to women, is bisexual, I think that's what he was boasting. There's news! Leave it to him to want it all and have it all and make poetry out of it. Marsha sounded slightly annoyed. "Andy," she said. "Taylor is a one lady ladies' man and I'm the lady." How did I get involved anyhow? "Andy," I told him simply. "I don't remember wanting to know any of this." He grinned at me almost invitingly. Then suddenly he turned to Marsha and said, "I love your hair." Was that a genteel compliment or was he coming on to her? I was about to break in and say something, anything, to remind him that Marsha's husband was in the immediate vicinity, when he added , "Do you think you'll want Taylor's done that way?" What way? So it falls the way it should just by shaking your head? He was joking with her, right? The idea did seem to amuse her. "You think this is attractive, do you?" she asked, moving her head as if to call even closer attention to the way her hair flowed as it moved. She grinned to herself, then to me with a kind of "play along" flash of her eyes. Then she answered him quite soberly, as if she were humoring a drunk, "No, Taylor's face has a different shape, and it'd be a year anyhow before his hair grew as long as mine. He looks cute enough the way it is. But I'll let him and his hairdresser decide." My hairdresser? Did she mean Tony, my barber? Who triples his income from me by doubling as my bookie? A year ago Marsha'd asked me to let my hair grow to below my ears in an early Beatles style, and Tony'd trimmed it lightly ever since. So it was well below my ears at the moment. Marsha was delighted. "Sweet, just lovely," was what she called it every time I returned from Tony's, freshly shorn but only just barely, adding, "I love it!" So would I ever want it any shorter? Our conversation shifted to Pam's new job and its demands. She'd be away often for two weeks at a time, then back for only a few days before heading out again. "I represent the head office so I need to impress everyone. So I'll be staying at the best hotels, and I've got a budget for the best clothing imaginable," she commented as she returned from the kitchen and was pleased to find herself the subject of conversation. She made a mock apologetic dip and curtsy. "Designer everything! The firm wants me to travel ultra-high class in order to intimidate troublemakers and if necessary kick ass with my Blahniks, let them know they are nowhere near my league. And meanwhile inspire others to imagine they too can look like me and some day maybe walk in my shoes." "You mean get the most capable and ambitious men in your branch offices to envy the way you look when you're dressed up in your Halstons and Balenciagas and Manolos?" Marsha asked, with a longer glance at me than seemed comfortable. "That's interesting." "Well, no. There aren't any men in our branch offices, not any more. We found several years ago that for selling our products women are far more effective than men, even over the phone. Because we sell almost exclusively to other women, to women wholesalers, women buyers for stores, individual women purchasers, and so on. And women ... well, women relate differently to each other. So what I oversee now is an all-female sales staff." "You fired the men? Isn't that sex discrimination? What happened to them?" I asked. "Oh we tried to keep all of them -- they had years of invaluable experience with the company, they're irreplaceable. Many transferred to acquisitions, or manufacturing, or distribution, one of the units where men deal with other men and do well. But if any wanted to stay in sales, they had to ... well, 'convert' is the word we used. If they agreed to convert they were paid full salaries for the six months it took, and they preserved their benefits and retirement packages, and in addition they received generous allotments to help them ... adjust. Almost all the men who converted are still with us and doing very well indeed. It turned out to be money well-spent!" "'Converted?'" I asked. "To what?" Pam looked at me so affectionately that I became uneasy. Was she coming on to me? Not in her husband's and her best friend's presence surely! "Oh, sweetheart, surely you know. They became women! They got their bodies and faces adjusted both hormonally and surgically, and meanwhile they learned how to live the life. Those who were qualified were given six months of pampering at full pay as their incentive to learn how women think and feel and behave, and when they emerged they were -- well, most of them are now more attractive and effective than the women who were born that way. They've all stayed with us, and overall they've turned in much better sales records. Of course a lot of them may felt attracted to ... femininity to begin with -- after all, not many roughy and tumble guys choose to spend their lives selling women's products to women. So the cards could have been stacked. "What about the men who were married?" I asked her. "What did their wives think of these ... conversions?" I gave Marsha the kind of meaningful glance she'd been giving me. To show her I cared about how wives feel about things. To imply in that glance that my failure to tell her about my ... transvestic experiments was more out of respect for her than because I lacked faith in her. She smiled at me appreciatively. She understood, her smile told me. That's why she'd never forced the issue, it said. We had such perfect rapport. I loved her! "Oh, the wives had to approve one hundred percent. We regarded them as invaluable collaborators. Many more than you'd think were tickled by the idea when we told them we wanted to turn their men into women, and most agreed wholeheartedly -- it was a kind of liberation for them, one of them told me. They went to the Conversion Spa along with their husbands and lived with them as roommates, and they were pampered along with them. So they were always available to help their men -- their former men -- through the more difficult parts of the transition." "That's just fine!" Marsha said. "Good for them!" My wife approved wifely loyalty with all her heart! I was proud of her. "Not every man easily achieved the degree of femininity we required, and some even found it demoralizing to ... well, to be girly in the presence of their wives. To be 'flouncy' was their term for overdoing it. But they knew it was a requirement, and in most instances the wives and their former husbands finished the program perfectly attuned to each other and well-adjusted to their new relationship, nor really married couples any more but instead, intimate girlfriends. A few wives chose not to stay with their husbands at that stage of course -- they wanted men. Some moved out and began living with the men employed by the spa as trainers." "Trainers?" I asked, a bit uneasy. "You mean these new ....ahhh ... new women, were trained by men? Not by other women? Why? Did you expect them to live with ... to have sexual relationships with ... with these trainers?" At this moment Andy appeared out of nowhere with a fresh drink and I accepted it gratefully. My third? "Oh no. Well, in one sense yes, all of our new women were expected to have sex with a man at least once, both oral and anal, so they'd have at least that much first hand experience of men and be able to joke comfortably with other women about it. About the peculiar ways guys behave when they're in their throes, and so on. You know. Girl talk." Pam looked at me, then at Marsha, and then the two of them seemed almost to giggle. They'd been doing some girl talking I had not been privy to? Probably. That's what women do with each other, after all. That's what these new women were learning. "Some new women found that once they'd experienced sex with men they loved it. But that wasn't required, not at all. Rather, the reverse. We're an equal opportunity employer with a huge sales force, all of them women, so we certainly don't discriminate against homosexual women, against lesbians, and we would never want to. Most of our former men did in fact finish as lesbians -- feeling altogether feminine and delighted to be women, and seeking sex with other women who felt the same way." "I've always felt that way," I said. That didn't sound like what I meant. Andy picked up on it. "You mean you've always felt feminine and delighted to be a woman, or just that you prefer sex with women?" he asked me, amused. "Oh, don't tease Taylor, Andy," Pam said to him. "Why not both?" They grinned together at me. "Go on, Pam," Marsha said mildly, trying to save me from further embarrassment. "Of course. Anyhow, that's why for our converts, sex with real men was only incidental. The trainers' main function in the program was to help these former men overcome some of the deep-set sexual jealousies that seem especially to afflict males. Sexual jealousy, as I'm sure you know, can be a terrible thing. All of the converts had to be liberated from any tendencies toward it." Pam looked at Andy with a certain steadiness while Andy carefully looked elsewhere. I wondered what that might signify. I'd heard once that they had an open marriage, but Marsha had assured me that wasn't the case at all. "No," she'd told me. "Pam insists on Andy's absolute fidelity despite his obvious attractiveness. It isn't easy for her. There always have to be compromises." "How can male trainers do that?" I asked. "By setting the former men an example and never being jealous of each other?" It sounded silly. "Without fail, every Saturday night during the entire six months of the conversion, the wives would leave their husbands, their former husbands, and go on dates with trainers. As you can imagine, the trainers were all men who were very male indeed, the kinds of men most women find enormously attractive, bigger and better and more dedicated to pleasing women in every way, if you know what I mean, and hired for those very attributes. The wives quickly realized that their former husbands were no competition at all and soon lost interest in them sexually. "That doesn't sound so good," I said aloud to no one in particular. "It had two good effects. One was, many former husbands learned to seek consolation from each other, each thinking of the other as an abandoned or betrayed woman and each therefore responding sympathetically. Much of the consolation was sexual, woman to woman, as it were. The kind of intimate consolation women offer each other when their men lose interest in them. This worked out well." "There are advantages to woman on woman sex," Marsha commented. "In college I went to bed with women occasionally. For some of the things we did there was no comparison with what men do!" She'd told me that early in our relationship, so it didn't shock me. But that she found women superior at "some of the things we did" disturbed me a little. Pam smiled at Marsha and then continued. "Then each Sunday morning their wives would come home from their dates and slip into bed with their increasingly womanly men and tell them everything that had happened. Everything. It was difficult for many of the men at first. As you can imagine, there was much weeping and roiling of temper, and much furious pounding on walls. Even though they were in training to become women, the men felt humiliated by their wives' sexual exploits. You know men. But by the end of the six month period they were both giggling and exulting together as a former husband debriefed his former wife about her night out. The former husbands ended up delighted by their wives' escapades, quite pleased about the whole thing. That's when a few more new women would go off with a trainer to see for themselves what it all the fuss was about, what it could be like. Then there was more giggling as they informed their wives." "Here, Taylor. You look as though you could use this." Now Andy was offering me yet another refill. I saw I'd drained the glass he'd just given me -- how could that have happened? I glanced at Marsha -- she usually kept count so I wouldn't come home utterly wasted and she wouldn't have to deal with my hideous hangovers and my endless remorseful declarations the next day. But Marsha only cocked her head and shrugged. I took the fresh glass and sipped it and set it down. Best go slow. I was already crocked, I could tell. "So you regard every member of your sales force to be like soldiers in Napoleon's army?" Andy asked Pam. "'Every soldier carries a Marshall's baton in his knapsack' was what Napoleon said. Any of your salespeople can aspire to be you some day, if she's good enough, and wear superb designer clothes at company expense, and stay in five star luxe hotels whenever they travel?" "That's the idea, honey. Of course I'm not the celebrity socialite I seem to be when I descend on each district sales staff in turn. But they don't know that. Most of us aren't what we seem to be. It takes courage to be what you seem." She seemed to be looking at me significantly, asking for agreement. I nodded. She smiled. "I think dinner's ready. Shall we adjourn to the table, and I'll bring it out?" I stood up and then weaved a bit, and so did the furniture, and even when I steadied myself the furniture didn't. So I took Marsha's elbow and walked carefully into the dining room. The table was very nicely set indeed. Crystal wine glasses beautifully etched. As I stood by my designated chair Andy appeared in shirtsleeves and said, "Here, Taylor, let me take your jacket -- you'll feel a lot more comfortable." Without thinking I gave it to him and sat down. Then panicked! The lacy shadow and the outline of my brassiere was now fully visible under my thin white shirt. I looked desperately around, then to Marsha, seated quietly across from me. She looked at me steadily and said, "That's all right, dear. Andy and Pam have known all about you for almost as long as I have." She smiled reassuringly at me and then unfolded her dinner napkin, her eyes searching for the bread basket. Known what?! What was there to know? I tried to calm down. "Known what?" I asked as if conversationally. Now Marsha was seeking the butter dish, which was close by, so I handed it across to her. One of my bra straps tugged at my shoulder as the elastic band stretched to accommodate the strain. Again. It felt strange to be confronting old familiar food like roast beef and mashed potatoes after a cocktail hour spent talking about men who become women, and now to be caught out in the open wearing a bra and feeling a strap tug on my shoulder. Andy poured me a glass of wine and I drank it. He poured me another and said, "Not so fast baby. This one's a rare vintage, sip it and enjoy it." I got the hint. "Don't you just love it?" Pam asked me as she settled herself. "Love it ...?" I couldn't think what else to say. The wine? "Pam noticed your bra earlier," Marsha explained as if to a sleepy child. I suppose at that moment I was nearly helpless. "She thinks it's just marvelous that you're so eager for your breasts to come in that you're wearing a bra all the time now, not just ocasionally, even though there isn't much of anything there yet." She quietly watched Andy pour wine into her glass. "Thank you, dear," she said to him, glancing up and smiling as he expertly rolled the bottle away to catch the drip. "Done with your usual finesse." I had no finesse, not when pouring wine or in most other things, and felt a twinge of jealousy, but I tried to keep cool. All this talk about men becoming women, how it's a very respectable career move, that was one thing. But to be thought one of them, that was another thing altogether. I realized I should say something to Marsha. "I don't .... Breasts? You put this bra on yourself, Marsha! On me yourself, I mean. So when I finish wearing it I won't notice it." That wasn't quite right but I couldn't see how to fix it. "Finish..." I tried again. No use. "What good advice you gave her!" Pam said to Marsha. "So she'll end up feeling naked or improper when she isn't wearing a proper bra! Always feeling appropriately modest. That's wonderful!" "She isn't quite ready to be called 'she' just yet," Marsha told Pam. "I mean 'he' isn't ready." She said 'he' as if it was a courtesy title she disbelieved in herself. As if the 'he' who was me was a she who had to be humored. "It isn't mine!" I announced. No help. That didn't engage the conversation either. But Marsha understood what I'd said. "It is now, sweetie," Marsha told me gently. Then explained to Pam, "The bra. After I gave it to her she made no attempt to unhook it, not once. He didn't, I mean. Because he claimed he couldn't reach it. That's partly true -- you know how much more supple women's joints need to be than men's. Men expect us to wrap ourselves around them as if we were soft and boneless except for that bone they're always trying to push into us." The two women smiled at each other. Then to me again, "Comfy now, honey?" "Marsha!" All this talk mixed with too much drink had addled me. I didn't know where to begin. The platter of roast beef came her way and she took a slice, then handed it on to me. I handed the mashed potatoes on to Pam. "You were so sweet about it, honey. You looked so proud! I remember my own first training bra -- it was the cutest thing, like two satin powder puffs on ribbons. But yours is the kind they make for big girls." She turned her head to address the others. "I promised Taylor that tomorrow we'll get her fitted with exactly her own size." I was speechless. I stared from one face to the next. Pam was beaming at me, delighted to have one more opportunity to demonstrate her full approval of all men who wear women's clothes. Andy was looking at me in a wry, kindly way, as if to grant that we all have our secret desires, and if to be a woman happens to be one of mine, well there's no shame at all attached to it. It's no big deal. Marsha merely looked earnest. "I offered to help him with his make-up too but he refused," she added. "He's wearing makeup this time?" Pam asked. "It's very subtle, I can't see it!" "No, tonight he decided not to. Wearing an actual bra after years of watching me, I guess envying me, that may have made him feel that enough's enough for one night. I think despite his desire to live as if a woman he also feels a certain ambivalence about giving up his manhood. It's a feeling of 'Look, I'm a woman, except when I'm not!'" I couldn't deal with this. I sliced my meat and took a fork full and a swallow of wine and tried to organize words fit to respond to this curious misreading of ... whatever. "Marsha," I said aloud. "Maybe could I speak ... priv ... pri ...!" I couldn't say the word. "Honey," she said in the kindest, tenderest voice imaginable. "Probably you've said enough. If you're embarrassed, don't be. We all love you and we all want whatever you want. Just sit quiet knowing that you have no secrets our dearest friends don't already know." For a short while we all sat eating in silence. I tried to sober up by filling my belly. "Been wearing Marsha's bras and dresses for some time, I understand?" Andy offered as a conversational gambit. Pam leaped to cover his crassness. "It's funny," Pam said. "I'd forgotten, but all this talk about effeminate men has brought it back. I once tried to get Andy interested in sleeping in a nightgown. I thought it would be fun to dress a man to look like a woman, to get him off his male high horse and into the real world women live in. But no go. He didn't want it and it did nothing for him anyhow. That nightgown's yours now if you want it, Taylor." All three of them waited for a response. I said nothing. Andy looked at Pam, then back again at me. "Pam, Taylor's about your size," he said. "Exactly your size, I bet not more than a few pounds off. Even your shoe size I bet. I remember from once when we got our running shoes mixed up, he's got a small shoe size for a man, what is it again Tay?" This I could handle. They'd changed the topic at last. "Seven," I said. My wine glass was empty. Andy saw and refilled it. I sipped triumphantly, having at last participated in the conversation. "And you, Pam" he asked her. "I try for eight, eight and a half, but settle for nine." "Same thing as a men's seven, an easy fit. And you have a closet full of clothes you'll never wear again what with all those designer shoes and clothes that have been pouring in since your promotion, and all the fittings you've gone to for more. I think we've found someone who'd love to have them!" "Would you make use of them?" Pam asked me. "Marsha would know how," I replied. That sounded about right. I was beginning to get incredibly sleepy. "Maybe I should seeee." I tried again. 'Sleep" was what I meant to say. But my eyes were closed. I then heard only fragments of conversations. Pam's voice mostly. "Take the poor dear to our bedroom, she can walk I think, just down the hall." "Why not, her eyes may be shut but while she's there we can easily check whether they'll fit her." "Look how these panties are a perfect match for that bra!" "No, not a ball gown for goodness sake, Andy, this is a dinner party, bring me a dinner dress." "Oh, beautiful!" Dozing, I felt myself slowly cocooned in layers of soft, slippery smooth clothes, tugging me gently here and there, much more comfortable than my shirts and suits and ties. "Lovely!" Pam's voice said. "She was born for this." Then after a blank space -- maybe I dozed, I heard, "Electrolysis takes time, but I'd start it anyhow, as soon as possible, tomorrow. But wax her immediately, Marsha." "Open your eyes a moment honey." I did. "See, that shade is perfect for his coloring, and the mascara emphasizes it!" I closed them. "Oh, my goodness what a gorgeous woman she'll be when her breasts come in! I'm so jealous!" "Of course she can take all of these home, the wig too, I have so many others! Andy'll bring the rest when he comes to your place for dinner next week after taking me to the airport. They'll pretty much fill the car." Marsha's voice. "You shouldn't!" "Well, anything he won't wear I certainly will. Your things are so gorgeous, Pam!" "Just look at him now with that blonde wig! It lights up her face! We'll keep him that way." "Yes, he's the sweetest doll. And never objected even once! I really do love him to pieces!" "I mean, I love her to pieces, just look how beautiful she is!" "Yes, I've often wanted to see if pancake makeup would cover her beard -- till we get rid of it -- and yet also put a glow in her cheeks!" "Yes, let's let her sleep now and go back to the living room and talk some more about this. It's your appointment to make, you say? And you think Taylor's perfect for it?" Blissful silence. I think I slept. Then Andy's voice. "Not yet awake, Taylor? It's been hours! They sent me back here to see if you were stirring. I see you are, a little" "Have you any idea how sexy you look in that getup? How provocative? Oh, God, they should never have put you into those stockings, honey, you have such great legs." I felt someone pull something down off my bottom. "Oh Taylor, Taylor, never ever cover that round ass with panties, even panties as pretty as these. Can you lift it just a little more?" I tried to get to my knees but now he was sort of pressing down on my rump with his stomach. "Yes, yes, that's it, a little higher you darling, perfect, now I'll go slow!" His hands clutched my breasts through the blouse and the bra and his fingers danced on my nipples, and a delicious dancing feeling crept into them, and into my crotch. Then a warm thick rod pressed on my anus, invaded my rear, and slowly slid inside. I relaxed my butt around it. It became my possession. "Oh, God, tight, tight, yes you lovely girl, oh paradise, you feel it too now don't you, don't you?" He was sliding in and out and in and out of me and a strange yearning began to grow in me, the fullness, completeness each time growing stronger until my whole middle seemed to glow with pleasure, heavenly, grand! Brighter and brighter. I felt fully alive, radiant! I wanted to embrace that staff of life so tightly it would grow into me! "Oh yes you feel it too, you're pushing back at me now, you do feel it, more, more, oh, oh, oh, you darling, I'm cumming, can you feel me throbbing in that tight ass of yours, you can, can't you? oh, oh God!" Oh, yes! I could feel him throbbing! What delicious joy! Oh, sweet! Oh, happy! Happy! Happy! My pelvis contracted and held me tense in paralyzed bliss as that joy mounted. Then as it peaked my own ass went into spasm too, repeatedly squeezing him and milking him, because I also was cumming. On Pam's sheets. It was staggering! We writhed together a bit longer, it was so delicious, and then lay still and tried to catch our breaths. It felt so good I wriggled some more on his softening cock, and smiled over my shoulder at him. Finally Andy pulled out. There was a pause as the bed moved, Andy getting off? "What a sweet ass! What a marvelous tight cunny! Here, use this tampon of Pam's, babe, you're gaping and leaking and we don't want to ruin your dress. Never mind the wet place on the sheets, I'll take care of it later." "There, now let's just see if we can stand you up, the girls want to see you and it's time to get you home." "There, all neat again. Except for the tampon and your flushed face no one would ever know we were being so naughty just now." "Open your eyes now, and walk, I'll hold you just in case. Come on, sweetheart, the girls are waiting. Hold me around my waist, there's nothing to be ashamed of, you're a woman like them now and I'm your boyfriend, sort of, that's all. You belong to the sisterhood now." He hugged me close and we started walking. I felt so secure while he held me. I also saw I was wearing the most beautiful purple silk dress, and purple heels to match. And long earrings of some sort, something was swinging from my lobes almost to my bare shoulders. Pam greeted us as we re-entered the living room. "Oh, there you two are at last. Taylor, don't you look lovely!" she said. "Had a nice nap? Even more than before I bet that now ... well, you know, after the first there's no going back, there wasn't for any of us! Was it everything you've ever wondered it might be? We all hoped ... oh, I see by your smile that it was -- I'm so glad. We never do forget our first, so our first ought always to be ... well, fantastic. And now you know, you're like the rest of us and can look forward to many more such adventures. We'll get you home soon, and leave you to dream some more about ... well, I suppose tonight it'll be about men, won't it." Marsha took my shoulder gently and set me down in a big armchair. "Welcome, to your new world, honey," she whispered to me. "It's our new world. You're going to love it so much, I promise you! Oh, you look so content now, so serene, its as if years of worry had simply lifted away, evaporated. You can't imagine how happy that makes me. Just sit and rest, honey, while we finish talking. We're almost done." She then turned back to Pam. "So when is it you leave on your first trip?" "This Tuesday. Only three days from now. It's a short one, only till the weekend. I'll be home before I'm even missed." "Still," Marsha said. "Andy's sure to notice that you aren't home. Andy, will you want to have dinner with us Tuesday night, that'll be your first night of enforced bachelorhood? Maybe also sleep over? We'd be happy to have you." "That may be," Andy said. "Thank you for asking. I do, but it depends, I don't want to intrude. "Oh, I wouldn't mind at all, now that everything can be out and open and above board. I want no more secrets kept from Taylor. Let's just ask her. Sweetheart, when Andy stays with us for a few days while Pam's away, would you like him to intrude on you again? He can teach you so much more about being a woman and loving it. You don't know yet about how a man stroking her bare breast can reduce a woman to jelly, for example, or even how a man's fingers feel different from a woman's. Nor about a woman's reversed world, about waking up feeling soft and smooth and yielding and then being squeezed and invaded by something hard and hairy and bony, and yet somehow it feels good and we love it regardless. Would you like to know those things?" I couldn't answer. She had this in mind for me? I nodded. "Then you'll stay with us while Pam's away," Marsha said to Andy. "We both insist." "Speaking of breasts, how will she fill that bra, Marsha?" Pam asked. "Has she started hormone therapy yet? At the Conversion Spa they use very high test stuff that completely reshapes everything in way less than the six months they've got. They can give any man a waist and hip line to die for, even apart from boobs proportional to his shoulders, and skin so soft that any man who lies down on it naked will imagine he's melting into it. Of course even birth control pills do the job adequately if you're willing to wait." "We can wait," Marsha replied. "We have a lifetime to wait. But I do want her committed irreversibly to her new life as soon as possible -- she rethinks the past too much when she should instead be anticipating the future. Above all I want her to enjoy her new body as soon as possible. I looked into implants a while ago, but they don't do right by a girl's nipple structure, and sometimes they reduce sensitivity. So if you can get me some of whatever it is the Conversion Spa uses, I'll appreciate it. Both of us will." "I'll call you first thing tomorrow to confirm everything we've talked about. Now, has Andy carried out to your car the clothes Taylor'll need for the next few days? Yes? Good. Now what should we do with Taylor's suit and shoes and so on, the things she wore when she came here. They're still upstairs." "She won't need them any more. I don't want my darling to go back ever. Give them away. I'll have Taylor do the same with his clothes at home when we get there." There was very little for us to say as we drove home. I just sat there demurely, feeling the new sensations created by my new clothing, even the slippery yet rigid feel of my new shoes whenever I wriggled my toes. Marsha looked over at me with a satisfied smile as she turned onto our street. When she pulled into the garage and turned off the motor, she leaned over and gave me a gentle peck on the cheek. "I love you, sweetheart," she said quietly. "Men may be men, but I've always loved the woman in you." "I love you too," I replied, meaning it sincerely. But I felt very different from hours and hours ago, when we'd left the house. We went upstairs without a word, and as she undid her dress and pulled it over her head, I did the same with mine. Then my chemise -- she wasn't wearing one. And there again was my bra, the same as before. I'd forgotten all about it. After leaving the dinner table, I'd ceased noticing I was wearing one. Not even when Andy was fucking me. Marsha was so right about that. It felt natural now, like my skin. "Help me take this bra off now please?" I asked Marsha simply. I'd done everything I'd promised her earlier tonight. And then some. She'd already reached back and unhooked her own. She shook her head but smiled encouragingly. "No, not yet. First, practice trying to unhook it, honey. For five minutes. Those joints need to stretch so you can reach back there and fasten bras up easily yourself. Especially when your breasts come in and need to be caught in their cups each time you put one on." I tried. Nothing. Not even close. "It won't happen, Marsha." "Oh, it will. Just try for five minutes each night, and then I'll help you if you wish. Within a month your bras will be flying off you -- you'll see. You need to become more supple in your hip joints, too. You have no idea how pliable a girl needs to be to extend her legs and then wrap them around a man's waist when he's humping you and you're humping back as good as you get and you're already out of your mind and riding his body like a stallion's." I couldn't quarrel with her about that, not after earlier tonight. I was too sleepy. But her words reminded me how I'd thrust back repeatedly as Andy's prick entered and re-entered me, like a rabid animal. She was also telling me that one day I'd be facing the man who's fucking me, pulling him into me with my legs. Yes, of course. That's what women do. Women do that. And I'd committed myself to do that again this Tuesday night with Andy? A tremor of fear but also a glow of eager anticipation rose up inside me. Was he that good, Andy? I guess he was! "All right, time's up. Now you can take the bra off your usual way. Don't pretend you don't know how, sweetheart. We both know you've been wearing my bras, and Angelina Summers told me long ago that you used to 'borrow' hers when you studied together in grad school. And I know you've worn the ones I bought specially for you. Let me remind you how. You put them on and take them off the way people with flat chests always do. You slip the straps off your arms, then turn the band till the cups are behind you, then unhook it in front. To put it on, the reverse." I should have realized it! I'd done it a hundred times! A thousand! If I'd remembered earlier when we were getting ready to go out ...? "Why didn't I think of that?!" I asked her, amazed. "Honey, listen very seriously to the answer to that question. Because at that moment, with me watching you and approving, way down deep as far as our desires can reach, you didn't want to take it off! You wanted to wear it for the rest of the night. You wanted to be a woman with me for the rest of the night. The same when your bra was exposed at the dinner table -- you could have kept your jacket, or reclaimed it, or stood and excused yourself, or covered your embarrassment with anger. You could have done any number of things. What would any woman do if someone tore off her blouse at a dinner party and left her sitting with her bra exposed to everyone? As yours was. At the very least she'd have shrieked and covered herself and run out of the room. There are lots of things girls do to rescue their modesty! And yet you didn't try even one of them -- you abandoned every pretence of manliness. You didn't want to. You wanted to announce your femininity despite yourself." I'm afraid what she was saying was true. I'd somehow "blocked" out all memory of what I should do and how to do it. Astonishing! "The same with everything that happened upstairs in Pam and Andy's bedroom, whether you were passed out or not. A girl can shriek, or cry, or scratch, if a man is molests her against her will. You had consciousness enough, but you didn't want Andy to stop. You wanted more, and he gave you more. So just let this one thought sit for a while, and get used to it. You didn't want to pretend to be a man any longer." Was she right? Humiliating as some of it had been, I'd also felt ... vindicated. Free at last! There'd been a secret excitement to everything that had unfolded this evening. An unaccustomed relief that at last I could be myself. My shoes, bra, panties, stockings, and garter belt removed, finally naked, I visited the bathroom before slipping into my pajamas. "Don't forget to take out your tampon, honey," Marsha called out to me. "If you need to change it right now, mine are in the cabinet, second drawer down. They're our tampons now. From now on take one whenever you feel you need one. You'll know when!" I didn't want to know whether she was grinning or not when she said that last. Maybe. When I returned I saw a nightgown on my pillow instead of my pajamas. "That's the one Pam bought for Andy that he never felt inclined to wear," Marsha informed me. "It's yours now." She paused. "It may be a little large for you. Andy's a large man." She paused again, and then added, "As you well know." "It's fine, honey," I said to her, slipping it on as if I were born to the wearing of pink nylon and lace nightgowns, then climbing into our bed. "Don't worry, his size isn't too large. And I love the way it fits." "Oh, God!" Marsha suddenly rushed to lie down on top of me and to hug me, to kiss my face repeatedly! "I've been so worried, baby! I knew that this was the right thing for you, I just knew it, especially when I saw how you never really resisted tonight. You did everything I asked despite yourself. In fact I was afraid we might be bringing you too far too fast!" "No, not too far or too fast," I reassured her. "We have our whole lives ahead of us. I want to thank you for everything, sweetheart. Come, get under the covers so I can hug you close." As she did she said, "Of course if you don't care for that kind of nightgown, tomorrow we'll buy you whatever kinds you do like." "It's fine," I told her as I took hold of her breast, oh, so gently. "I love this one. It feels so soft. Can I have more than one?" "Two," she whispered. "Mine, and soon two of your very own." Then, "Darling, I've never before shown you how women make love, have I? Would you like to kiss my breasts and my clit while I kiss yours?" I nodded yes. We both then nodded our heads and our mouths on each other's necks and nipples, and faces, and nodded them all around each other's crotches for what may have been another hour. Eventually, exhausted, we nodded off to sleep. The phone rang while I was still asleep, but the sound along with all the sunlight pouring into the room woke me up. Marsha took it in the bathroom and talked for a long time while I woke up and realized, from her tone of voice, that it was Pam again. Hadn't those two conspirators done enough for one weekend? I was sitting on the edge of the bed when she returned. She sat alongside me and we talked. "It's done. You'll take over the regional sales analyses from Pam, at her salary. It's done, you're on the payroll, and our family income has just taken a great leap forward. Which is just as well, because even with you taking over Pam's wardrobe as well as her work, we need to buy you so much! Pam will come over tomorrow to brief you, and she'll spend the day with you in your study and give you all the computer codes and show you all the systems and tell you what to watch for." I nodded. We'd chatted about our work before. I knew I could handle hers in some ways even better than she could. "She'll also bring you your first dose of hormones. They'll make you feel really good, so even if you have regrets you won't want to go back. Now is when to change your mind about all this." I sat very still and said nothing, just continued to look interested. I was already feeling really good. She waited. I had to make up my mind. There was a problem here. Marsha