Girl Friday free porn video

Girl Friday by Vickie Tern Even before I met her, Sharon's Friday evenings were her own. Hers. Not mine or ours, hers and her girlfriends'. Every Friday they'd meet and do whatever it is girls do. I never knew exactly what -- play cards I supposed, or swap recipes, trade shopping experiences, dish dirt about absent friends, whatever women do when there are no men around to inhibit or distract them. She explained to me early on that it's been that way with her friends and their friends since even before college. Nothing personal, just how things were. I found that out when I first came over one Friday and she simply walked out on me. It was friendly enough. We were colleagues, we did similar things in different offices of the same firm, and we took to lunching together to compare notes. Management thought we made a good team so they sometimes sent us out to represent the firm at conventions, or on out-of-town sales trips. So we saw a lot of each other in different circumstances, and gradually got to know each other pretty well. She was more venturesome than me, more daring and impatient. I'm more cautious, more of a detail man, careful with the follow through. So we provided each other with what the other needed, and came to appreciate and trust each other. We took to calling each other for all sorts of reasons or no reasons, at all sorts of hours. Just to chat, nothing more looked for or implied. As friends. I figured she was way out my league -- she was beautiful and sophisticated and dressed smartly. She was clever with the right words no matter how awkward a situation might become, no matter how close men tried getting to her, the wrong men anyhow. I felt privileged that her face always lit up when she saw me. That she liked me. Well, one Friday I was late at the office finishing off a draft of a joint report, and I decided to drop it off at her place, maybe see if she was free to share a pizza, maybe a movie afterward. Phoned her first of course. She hesitated, then said sure, come on over, but don't plan to stay too long. Fair enough. But when I arrived, she was ... well, she was gorgeous! Dressed in a tight red halter dress so low-necked I could see deep between her ... bosoms, and her hair and face were ... well, perfect! Flawless. When she opened her door and I saw her I just stood and stared and my heart turned over. Flipped, I could feel it! Then it actually began beating fast! She saw the effect she'd had on me of course, and smiled more warmly than ever. A teasing kind of smile, the kind that promises to lead us both maybe to places we didn't previously know existed. My heart beat faster still. I apologized clumsily for intruding -- she obviously had a date. "Oh no," she said. "No date. Tonight's Friday, that's all, same as any other. Nothing special." Puzzled, I offered to run home and change and then accompany her wherever. Since it wasm't anything special. If she didn't mind. "Absolutely not," she replied abruptly. I recoiled, and she saw and instantly explained. "Friday nights I spend with my girlfriends, Matt. You're a sweetie, but ... well, not the right kind. You know how girls are -- we do girl things. Like guys when guys get together to do guy things I suppose, only different. We say and do whatever we like without worrying about what our men might think, if we have any men in our lives. Other days we have all sorts of obligations to all sorts of people, especially if we're married or have kids. But Friday nights we indulge just ourselves." She kissed me lightly on the cheek and told me she was sorry but it couldn't be helped. Then, maybe because I looked at loose ends and she knew I lived in a crammed one-room dive while hers was a full- sized, tastefully furnished apartment, she invited me to stay right where I was and wait for her return. "Use the place as if it were your own, Matt honey," she said. "Help yourself to beer or wine, read, maybe watch television." She wouldn't be too late -- maybe she'd even be back by midnight. Suddenly she gave me a long, meaningful look, as if an idea was working through her mind she couldn't quite share. Then she nodded to herself. And as she went out the door she paused to toss a suggestion over her shoulder. "Try some of my magazines, Matt! Expand your mind! You might like them!" She stopped, then turned to face me, and as if she'd considered the idea further and confirmed that it was a good one, she said, "Yes! Do just that! Those over there! They just might interest you! It just might matter." She bobbed her head at a fat stack of magazines on an end table and was out the door. It sounded like a challenge. What just might matter? I saw at a glance they were all women's magazines -- "Cosmopolitan," "Vogue," "Harper's Bazaar," "Allure," "Celebrity." You know the kind. I flipped down the pile and found others, "Marie Claire" and "Glamour." Toward the bottom, "Good Housekeeping" -- odd in this high-fashion company, but there it was. On the very bottom, "Playgirl." I'd never heard of it. It looked like "Playboy," but it was loaded with photos of buff naked guys instead of alluring naked girls. One glance was enough. She thought I might like browsing through these kinds of magazines? Why? Well, OK, why not? She was off doing women's things, so women's things were on her mind. And as with most men, women's things were mysteries to me, terra incognita, strange and exotic and intricate. I settled in to explore that unknown land. To educate myself. I'd only glimpsed that world before, glancing at women's magazine covers at the supermarket in passing. They were all heavy with advice about fashion, about clothing, about changing your body, with full color lush covers showing gorgeous babes looking out at you wide-eyed, flaunting their perfect, photoshopped faces and figures, often wearing only, lingerie, inviting you to join them and do what they do. I'd look into their eyes and immediately get tumescent. While you make yourself as beautiful as these girls are, the front cover texts said, we'll tell you how, and meanwhile we'll dish you lots of scandalous gossip about movie and TV celebrities, about who's hoping to find bliss with someone else's spouse, and who's cheating on their spouse. You know. I looked more carefully at the top few magazines. There were all sorts of self-improvement articles. How to move five pounds from your hips to your breasts, and how to make your lips look naturally plump. How to decide which shades of mysteriously smoldering eyes are right for you. How to pretend interest in a boring date or seduce a fascinating one. Lots more on how to please someone once you've got him close, then how to get him eager to do anything for you. Anything. In short, how to manipulate and use men. Some articles explained what some guys especially like in bed or at the dinner table, how to please them, but more explained how to get guys to eat whatever you may offer them in bed so they'll prefer it to anything you offer at the dinner table. A lot of articles offered frank illustrated sex-manual advice about how to reach towering orgasms, and then more towering orgasms. So a girl can feel fully satisfied yet also feel that she can't ever get enough. Most of each magazine was advertising, displays of beautiful women who stared directly at me, their expressions reassuring, building up my confidence that if I cream my complexion just so, and then hold my head just so, he'll be so enraptured he'll feel compelled to kiss my neck and then he'll be mine, just so. There were all sorts of such secrets shared only between us girls. Because, as these ads assured me, though I may know all about the ecstatic desires aroused by nipples and clits, and how a girl feels when a stiff dick is sliding in and out of her soft, wet places, I don't know everything about creaming those erogenous areas to keep them tempting. Or about perfuming them so he'll draw closer. Or tinting them. It was all incredibly exciting -- my prick hardened and stayed hard! Could it be true, as page after page assured me, that this product or that was what made women so alluring, that I could be as attractive? There were articles about using make-up to look sophisticated or innocent, domineering or helpless, depending on your mood -- I'd had no idea there were so many ways to paint a face to achieve an effect. There was an article about necklines, how to reveal your cleft modestly or boldly, depending on your intentions -- whether you're dressing for a job interview or to get laid. How to reveal seductively that you may be dressing for both. I got altogether absorbed in an article detailing how to get a guy licking syrup out of your pussy, how it feels when he begins at your navel and then works his way down. That one hooked me! I wondered what it would be like to have a pussy, though my mind balked at the idea of some guy licking mine. Instead I imagined one of the cosmetics models licking me down there, and that turned out altogether satisfactory. Somewhat illogically, I stroked my erection as she bent to nibble my clit and thrust her tongue into my slit while her hand -- my other hand -- reached to caress an erect nipple on one of my heavy breasts. And as her hair swept across my belly, I came. Almost violently, and altogether helplessly. As my climax approached I'd prepared for it, so I caught the cum in toilet tissues, then flushed them away and returned to the magazines, intent to learn yet more about what every woman knows and no man ever suspects they know. By the time Sharon returned it was nearly one a.m. I didn't hear her at first because I was deep in a series of letters to the editor declaring that deep throating a man is superior to just sucking his cock, because then you can possess him more completely -- after all, you hold his most precious possession hostage to your least whim. Also, if you happen not to like the taste of semen, when he spurts directly down your esophagus into your stomach you won't taste it and he won't even know. This is what women talk about among themselves? This is the kind of thing Sharon knows? My God she's never let on! But then, we'd discussed such intimate matters. "Still here?" Sharon looked tired as she closed the door to her apartment and leaned on it, maybe surprised to see me still there still reading her magazines. Maybe slightly annoyed? "Yes, I never expected it, but these things are fascinating!" I said when she saw what I'd been doing. She stared at me and at the diminished stack of glossy fashion mags. Then suddenly seemed to remember her invitation to me, and looked pleased. She turned playful. "Do you have a favorite article?" she asked me? "A must read you'd like to share with me? Some beauty product you just have to rush out and buy?" She was joking of course. I decided to play along. "Well, there's this latest 'Vogue'," I replied. "We're all wearing splashy colors now, I see, mostly pinks and mauves, and our blouses must have ruffled bodices. But these long skirts they say we all need for this Fall? To me they look a little dowdy. And only women who're pencil thin with no hips can wear them. Are you planning to buy any?" "No," she said. "I'm not. I'm too curvy." She hesitated. "Are you?" She sounded curious, as if asking a girlfriend. Still joking, obviously. Maybe inquiring into ... maybe my unnatural tastes? So I joked back. "I won't, no," I replied. "I'm slim enough, but those skirts are far too expensive. 'Vogue' styles are way beyond my reach -- I'm just not that kind of woman. On the other hand, the articles in 'Cosmo' are something else! Do they always give women such frank sexual advice? 'Six ways to keep him coming and then coming back for more!'" I read out loud. "That kind of thing?" "Always," she replied, "Did whatever you read tell you anything you didn't already know? I don't mean about guys you've slept with, or maybe your taste runs to women, the women you've slept with. I mean about the kinds of things we care about? We women." Did she include me in that 'we'? She seemed more intent in her questioning than casual jesting or politeness required, not at all in a hurry for me to pick up and leave her apartment so she could get to sleep. She wanted to talk. So, we talked. I talked. I told her I'd learned women can be a lot hornier a lot longer than men, especially because men peak fast and women a lot slower. She nodded and waited -- yes, she was serious! So I told her what else I remembered about almost anything I'd just read. About different kinds of kiss-proof lipstick and how to remove them. About bras designed to push a girl's ... best features way forward. About necklines that expose clefts and others that fail to conceal them, and the subtle difference and conceivable consequences. About licking pools of syrup out of navels and places further down. About swallowing semen versus swallowing a penis you happen to have in your mouth before it can spurt. About tightening my buns to make them round for the bikini season, and then buying a new thong bikini to preserve nominal decency while putting them on display. And one article about how to make anal sex exciting for you as well as him. She asked me for brand names, details, examples, as if the information mattered to her. It was like an oral examination for some kind of grade. Fortunately I remembered most of the answers. With each she grew more approving, even more admiring it seemed. And for the first time, more openly affectionate. When I told her I'd learned never to use an orange-based red lipstick in winter, because berry shades work better with pale skin, she burst out, "You darling! You do care about these things, how we feel about them! I don't know any men who've ever bothered to appreciate how we use makeup! Except maybe men who work in salons! And a lot of them are more interested in each other! Are you one of those, Matt?" Unexpectedly, she sat herself down in my lap and snuggled her soft bottom against my crotch, and encircled my neck in her arms. And kissed me. Briefly but deeply and passionately -- I couldn't doubt that she meant it. And I felt just marvelous. Then, leaning back, she asked me for more magazine advice and gossip and I told her more. Uneasily, because to know these intimate women's things seemed to me somehow improper, unmanly, and I didn't want her to think me unmanly. Yet, I've always had a knack for remembering all sorts of scraps of information, and oddly, the more I shared these new findings with her the more affectionate she became. And the more passionate. Her kisses grew more intense. "You're a marvel!" she exclaimed. I was telling her how women feel reassured when stroked gently from their shoulders to their hips, the hand following their contours, and demonstrating it, when she added suddenly, "Come to bed, Matt! Now! Come to my bed this moment! It feels wonderful! I want to see if you feel that way when I stroke you that way! Show me everything you've learned! No more but no less! Not about pushing into a pussy, not that man stuff, but everything else! Everything you've learned about being and pleasing a woman!" Could I say no? She'd called me 'sweetheart'! Once we were in bed together she continued her interrogation. It was a bit weird. She rose to an orgasm when I buried my face in her slit and began licking and sucking on her, but even through its throes she kept querying my reading and listening closely to my muff-muffled replies. I took it all as a game, enormous fun! Then she took to testing my new knowledge on me! When I again mentioned kiss-proof lip color she playfully applied some of her own to my lips and asked me to try to remove it on her lips. Not the lips on her face -- she gestured toward her vulva. Then shifted her body and sat lightly on my face. Did I have a choice? Did I want a choice? I tried strenuously to wipe my lipstick off on her labia and failed. Then while she was recovering from the resulting orgasm I went into her bathroom and tried first soap and then cleansing cream. Those failed too. "That kind of lip color needs its own removing cream," she said triumphantly, gleefully, as her own red lips took to nibbling and kissing mine. "You don't know everything about women, not just yet! So just stay looking pretty for now. Maybe I'll lend you some more of my make-up in the morning, but maybe I won't and you'll have to go out and buy your own." Me pretty? I felt a rather odd sensation down below. Maybe because that was how she wanted me? It excited her? I wanted to excite her! Her next question came out of the blue. "You like doing what women tell you to do, don't you?," she asked me. "You've read about how some of us like men who are responsive to us. Or maybe there's been a girl in your past who gave you the opportunity?" "I like it when you tell me what to do," I had to reply truthfully. "Because that tells me you care. That I'm special. It feels good to please you, Sharon. I can't help it, it does!" "Well, let's see how far that goes. How good I can make you feel by pleasing me. Stand up and take off your shirt while I try this on you." She took a bra from her drawer, almost without looking at it, and came around behind me and tried to gather up my chest into it, to divide my torso into two mounds thrust forward. There were two failures with two different bras, but then a third -- a padded push-up bra -- did succeed. It even conferred a cleft on me. A little cleft. I couldn't tell whether I was not-quite revealing it or not-quite concealing it. "What's this for?" I asked her, trying to be cooperative but genuinely puzzled. "We might need to plump you up a bit here," she said thoughtfully, poking my new padded boobs. Was she serious? "Then as you say, maybe we can send you out to interview successfully for a job, or to get laid. Or both." She reached toward me and stroked one of my nipples through the bra's satin cup. An electric shock went through me, from the nipple straight through to the base of my penis. I let out a throaty groan. That delighted her, so she stroked the other nipple too. Then both together. Ecstasy! I closed my eyes and began to come apart, to melt, to cry out softly, helplessly. She heard my mewling and marveled, and said half to herself, "You DO understand something of how women feel, don't you. You do have sweetly sensitive nipples, the way we do, don't you?" "If this is what women feel, God, yes!" I said as the tips of her fingers danced over my tits. Then mercifully, she stopped fondling mine and began to caress her own breasts all the while looking into my eyes and listening for more of my answer. "Yes, I do," I said. "I certainly do!" It was a peculiar discovery. It seems that when nipples are pushed out away from the body, as occurs naturally with women but uncommonly with men's flat chests, they get to feel incredibly erogenous. I'd just found out why women love it when their tits are kissed and suckled, why they love to nourish babies from them. I turned to do just that, to suckle hers, but now she had a new idea. "Let's get you dolled up all the way," she said firmly. She climbed out of bed, motioning for me to sit on the edge and await developments. I knew this was some kind of further test, and it felt silly, but I was already wearing her lipstick and a bra so I didn't feel I was in a powerful bargaining position. She quickly fitted me up with stockings and panties and a garter belt. "Lovely," she said. "Now you look like a girl who's dying to get laid, Matt. Did you know you have very nice legs? Point your toe and run your hand along your new hosiery. Doesn't it feel lovely? Curvy?" It did. I nodded, too choked up to speak. Then came a chemise and a loose, belted shirt dress, then moderately heeled shoes that felt tight but nevertheless somehow fit me. "Walk," she commanded. I did. This was her game and she seemed eager to play it, so I cooperated fully. I even swished my hips and grinned at her. "We don't swish our hips to please others," she informed me, unimpressed. "We do it so others will want to please us." I felt chastened somehow. "But I do appreciate how you feel," she added. "It's how any woman feels when she knows she's attractive." She smiled. Silly as I felt to be dressed as a woman and thought swishy, her smile made it worth while. I did feel attractive. She'd told me so. I grinned my appreciation at her. So without objection I allowed her to continue. To 'do something' about my hair -- she brushed it up and sprayed it. To make up my face -- I offered her advice about 'my' shades of eye shadow, given my complexion and hair, having just read about it. Finally she declared me "Just beautiful! Really!" I stood and looked at myself in the mirror on her closet door, and I couldn't disagree. My manhood was gone. Nothing of it remained in evidence, and also nothing of its absence to feel defensive about. If anything, I looked and felt un-self-consciously feminine. It was a peculiar feeling, but not unlike the ways I'd felt while browsing her magazines and thinking the girl thoughts they aroused. She examined me impassively as I examined myself. Then with an odd, satisfied smile, she went off to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of syrup. Now she seemed almost shy. I took it from her and kissed her full on the lips, woman to woman. What we then did for the next few hours -- both of us as women, with no penetration of pussies or rear ends except by fingers or noses -- might have seemed racy even to the editors of Cosmo. Sharon never let up. She took my breath away. By dawn I was hopelessly, helplessly, passionately, desperately in love with this woman, this gentle guide into a world I'd never previously known. Eager to please her any imaginable way! Oh, God, yes! My face and neck was hopelessly sticky and my penis was utterly drained. Not drained by her pussy, that was off limits to my cock, though to no other part of me. For a time she'd tried to settle that editorial dispute about deep throat versus lip service during a blow job, and I still didn't know which form of warm, moist slippage was the more exciting or enthralling. We slept for a few hours wrapped up in each other, and then when I woke I stared at her a long time through the mascara-laden fringes of my eyelashes. I must look like a clown, I was thinking, but if this is what she wants, this is what I want. She's the most exciting woman I've ever known. She opened her eyes and looked at me mildly, a slight smile approving what she saw. And sighed, content. She she had me where she wanted me. Yes, she did. Suddenly, impulsively, I asked her to marry me. Just like that. I surprised even me, but only a split second later I'd reviewed the prospect and approved it and congratulated myself for proposing it and begun waiting desperately for her reply. Had I moved too soon? Much too soon! But now I was so very much in love with this incredible woman. And knew it! She paused, and tweaked one of my still-bra-clad nipples, playfully this time, and reminded me that I scarcely knew her. I told her that wasn't true and also, I didn't care. She said nothing. Her fingers turned more gentle, but she continued to tease my protruding nipples, pinching them ever so lightly. Desire rose up in my groin, but I held back, waiting. She told me quietly that if we were to live together, married or not, she'd always want me to be as considerate and knowledgeable about women's concerns as I'd already shown her I could be. Maybe even moreso. Meanwhile her fingers never ceased caressing the tips of my breasts, whatever I had that passed for breasts. A sublime, rapturous pleasure spread from my nipples and out through my body, a deliciously passive eagerness for more, and I told her so. I understood why women loved that sensation. I wanted more of it, to learn even more about things women care about. The things she cared about. "Would you be willing to be my girlfriend sometimes?" she asked me casually, as if expecting me to object. "To dress and behave like one? At least every Friday night, like tonight? So I can come home to my girlfriend every Friday and she can tell me more about what she's learned about being girly? And then we can make love like girlfriends? Like tonight?" "If that's what you want," was what I replied, almost breathless with desire. Her fingers never left my chest. Oh, God! At that moment, a lifetime of licking syrup out of her cunt seemed all too short. Dressing and behaving like a girl was no price to pay for the privilege. "Maybe even go out together sometimes as girlfriends? Evenings? Even all day, sometimes?" Just the two of us? Or with her friends on girls' nights out? It depends. But I didn't say that, "Whenever you think I won't disgrace you," I replied. "Marry me, and I'll do whatever you want. Whatever pleases you!" To spend my life with this woman, no matter how, seemed more right than ever. She stared into the middle distance for a moment and then grasped my chest with both of her hands. As if I had two chests, one in each hand. Two breasts, I mean, full breasts each filling her hands. Then with no hesitation, her voice breathy, she turned to look me straight in the eyes. "All right, Matt," she said. "Yes. As far as I know now, yes, I will marry you. You seem to be exactly the kind of man I've been looking for. Exactly what I want. Move in with me, and we'll see. We'll soon know. No, no more smooching -- for now stay just where you are. Slip out of your panties and lie back on the bed on your back. Just as you are. Let's fuck now. I want to fuck you! Fuck me back, Matt!" She climbed on top of me and sank me into her and I did. We did. Blissfully! My spent penis instantly revived and I thrust myself deep into her cunt and she rolled her pelvis around on me and we fucked each other over and over till it was past noon. We spent the whole weekend naked. Now and then Sharon drained my cock or refreshed my make-up, "So you'll remember you're pretty, really feel it all day long, my sweet doll-face! Maybe even prefer it, darling Mattie! My very own girly-man!" Saturday afternoon she cleared my entire body of hair and we bubble-bathed together, emerging both of us scented like flowers. She then rubbed a softening cream all over my body, then her own, and it soaked in almost immediately. "This is another secret women share only with each other," she said as she kissed her way down my hairless belly. "How certain skin lotions keep us so well moisturized and lubricated that a man's body slipping and sliding around on ours feels no resistance, no friction. So we feel as if we were made of satin, or air. Don't we?" We did. We slipped and slid all over each other. And occasionally slept. Sunday evening we came aware that we were starved, that we hadn't eaten anything since Friday except each other's juices and the syrups, jellies, and whipped toppings we'd been eating off and out of each other. So we decided to go out for dinner to a quiet nearby bistro. Sharon was pleased to see that I kept my bra on -- its hug felt reassuring, somehow. She took it as a gesture of solidarity with her kind. Otherwise I dressed in my usual male clothes. But at the last minute she refused to supply me with lipstick remover, suggesting I should instead make up the rest of my face as a woman's, despite my men's clothes to try to pass as a woman. Why not? So I plucked my brows -- I didn't care now -- and I made up my face, this time with deep shadowing and a wide-eyed, naive expression. By now my hair was more or less unisex, tousled out of shape, so that offered no impediment. And off we went. I passed with no trouble. We were shown to our seats with a polite "Follow me, ladies." Two men at the bar eyed us and started toward us, but fortunately Sharon's severe glance warned them off. "For now," she said with a satisfied smirk. "But sooner or later you'll ndeed to learn how to flirt with men. Or fend them off or lead them on. Every girl knows how much fun that can be." We were still giggling about the two men as we retired to the Ladies room to pee and repair our make-up. When we finally got back to Sharon's apartment we were both so exhilarated by the imposture that we tore each other's clothes off. God I loved her! "We'll do this every Sunday!" she whispered to me breathlessly. "For the rest of our lives!" "Yessss!" I said. If that was what she wanted, that was what she would have. For the rest of our lives! There was an odd extra pleasure in it for me, too. An unexpected self-assurance. I felt peculiarly comfortable resembling someone not myself, not a man but rather the other kind, a woman, someone beautiful and graceful like Sharon, the kind I've always most desired. Or so I could imagine myself. I felt whole, at home, relaxed, completed. That feeling only strengthened when I knew others were seeing me as a woman, assuming I was one and treating me accordingly. Yes, I'd go out with her as girl and girl. Gladly! The next day I moved in and we considered ourselves engaged. We went to work together and came home together, and sometimes we shopped together on the way home from work, for food or household products, but also for clothes for me. "You need a whole wardrobe of your own," she declared flatly to me that first week, and I couldn't deny it. "Your own bras and panties, and a few casual dresses and slacks, maybe even one 'special occasion' dress too. How can I admire your taste if you don't display it, and how else can you discover your own individual sense of style?" Every Friday evening and all day Sundays I displayed both. It was fun! Women's clothes come in so many shapes and designs and colors, with so many fascinating catches and inserts, that choosing an outfit and dressing myself became a marvelous game for me. Dressing femnale had a transformative power. As I clipped my bra and pulled up my panties, slipped into a dress and stockings and heeled shoes, and did my make-up, I became a woman even in my own mind! Our courtship and our first year or so of marriage kept up that pattern even after we moved to a modest house in the suburbs. Wednesdays or Thursdays I'd sometimes overhear Sharon and one or another of her women friends planning their Friday evenings chatting by phone about different arrangements, who might be there and where and who couldn't be. Or she'd disappear into her study to talk more privately to them, or to e-mail or text them. I assumed so anyhow. Each Friday, as I understood it, they'd visit one or another's houses, often some one large place somewhere just outside of town. Or they'd meet at the Country Club, or in a downtown hotel. Maybe in some restaurant with private rooms or some other convivial location. I got that impression, though I may have been wrong. "We don't all play bridge, not any more," she confided. "Though some of us prefer it." I didn't ask prefer it to what, what else they did, and she never volunteered the information. But it was understood that Friday evenings were hers, that she'd spend them apart from me, doing her own things, and I would spend them as I had first night, increasing my understanding of women and uncovering whatever womanhood I could find in myself. We'd dress together, comment on each other's outfits, and then she'd leave the house. I'd sit home reading her magazines while waiting for her to return. Whatever was current, "Cosmopolitan," or "Vogue," or "Harper's Bazaar," whatever I found on the coffee table. For a while, at her suggestion I read some of the novels written for adolescent girls, the kind intended to help them daydream about fellas and meanwhile learn appropriate behavior. "You've had no girlhood. This will help you feel more like one of us, and better understand how we feel,' Sharon explained when she handed me my first one. I read quite a few of them. They told me a lot about maidenly desires and adolescent passions, how girls want to be hot yet decent and manage both at once somehow. Sometimes I'd pass the time while Sharon was out by trying out a lengthy beauty treatment I'd read about, or by trying on yet other of her dresses to see if I should buy myself something similar. She encouraged that sort of self-exploration, my getting to know the woman in me better and getting accustomed to her. Being her. I even subscribed to a few women's magazines on my own, as "Mattie." That pleased her enormously. And as she did that first Friday, whenever Sharon returned from her meetings she'd question me about whatever I'd done and read and how well I understood it, and she'd exult at my growing understanding as well as my increasing sense of style. She appreciated my wanting to know everything every woman knows or should know, though I never reminded her that it wasn't for myself but to please her. Then as that first Friday, we'd make love together as women. Sometimes as lesbian women pretending to be men -- that way my "dildo" was allowed to penetrate her. I couldn't wait for those evenings -- her exclusive attention to my nipples when we were being two women together, her caressing and sucking on them, that was heavenly, so exciting I had to wear a rubber to catch my ejaculations. Then on Sundays we were women all day. Friends together. At first we went nowhere, but after a while to a movie and then to dinner in a restaurant. But always as two women. I liked it, feeling like someone else. It did disturb me that when we were seated Sharon would often ask me about this or that "cute" guy elsewhere in the restaurant, what I'd think, how it would feel if he came over and chatted us up, maybe even asked me for a date as if I were a real girl and unattached. I understood this was all part of my education in how women see, judge, and react to men, what seems most interesting in them, and gradually learned not to mind. But it somehow felt strange. The first time she did it I was outright annoyed. I didn't like her noticing other guys when she was out with me, even though I was supposed to be a woman who feels only what women feel, and I said as much. She pursed her lips and said nothing. But the next Friday evening I found several issues of "Playgirl" atop the stack in the living room instead of buried at the bottom. "Playgirl," I found, was filled with photos of hunks, of broad-chested, well-muscled men smiling invitingly out at me, some of them wearing only jockey shorts and grasping their packages, some of them altogether bare, long penises draped at ease along their thighs as they looked me over. One guy's dick was actually rising to meet me, and he looked into my eyes as if he expected me to be impressed. As if he expected me to do something with it. That made me uneasy. Then when Sharon got back she wanted to know which guys I preferred, and which penises. I tried to oblige by answering appropriately -- I'd learned my lesson. Thereafter I played the game in restaurants as avidly as she wished. We soon settled that the men we liked best had moderate builds, long blonde hair, and square rather than pointy jaws. "And big cocks," Sharon added almost casually, almost absent-mindedly, one Sunday evening. "And big cocks, of course," I said insincerely. She sensed it, but only smiled and said nothing. I was grateful when one Friday evening I found that instead of a "Playgirl" she'd left me one of those hot novels about wealthy and talented women pursued by wealthy and sophisticated men, the kind written by and for women and sell millions of copies. The first told of a young woman who at last gives her heart to a brilliant, heartbreakingly handsome, but impoverished young scientist, after nursing him back to health. The following week she left me another, the story of a young dress designer who allows herself to fall in love with a dashing Hollywood actor. Both novels consisted of characters yearning for each other while engaging in multiple infidelities. All of their climactic moment of togetherness were sexual climaxes, with skyrockets exploding in their heads as nearly disembodied penises thrust and exploded into their almost disembodied pussies. At first I ridiculed these novels as housewives' wishful fantasies, but I stopped disrespecting them when she threatened to substitute a year's run of the magazine "Seventeen." So I began to get a feel for the kinds of men that appeal to a girl, the safe and reassuring ones and the dangerously exciting ones too. And wondered now and then which one I was. That gave us even more to discuss on our Sundays out together chatting about the various men in the vicinity. Always, she wanted me to demonstrate what I'd learned during my Friday night self-tutorials. At first it was enough when she arrived home for me to tell her how to re-arrange her short hair into a celebrity hairdo, and then do it. Then she wanted me to try those styles out on myself, for me to have my own hair arranged one way or another when she got home so she could see for herself. That led to my first trip to a hair salon, that wonderful woman's world in itself. Every Friday afternoon thereafter she'd have me stop by after work for a touchup, maybe to have stray hairs thinned from my brows or more facial hairs lasered away until my cheeks and chin were as smooth as hers -- there was always something. The beauticians there would tease me, always urging I get a perm or tattooed eyeliner -- of course I couldn't -- but occasionally explaining seriously to me why a particular hairdo I admired wouldn't work on me. Or might work. They, together with the magazines, taught me to adopt a sloe-eyed make-up effect, one just right for the shape of my face. Then while Sharon was out with her girlfriends, the magazines would encourage me to try on some article of clothing I already owned in a new way or combination of ways -- to add a cute little bolero to my blouse, for example, or to slip into wide harem pants. Little by little Sharon came to expect that when she arrived home Fridays I'd be dressed in some novel fashion worth discussing, fully made up to look sly, or seductive, or whatever my magazines decreed was this season's rage. Women at the office remarked that I was looking and behaving ... well, nicer, gentler, better groomed. More feminine, they didn't hesitate to compliment me with that word. Distinctly metrosexual on Fridays -- they never used the word 'sissy,' though I'd have accepted it with pride if they had. The men I worked with became a bit more formal with me, and the women more relaxed and chatty, especially when they found how very much I knew about so many of the things they cared about most. When Sharon and I finally married they all joked that I also deserved a bridal shower, and Sharon did assure them that during the ceremony I was indeed, like her, wearing something old, new, borrowed, and blue. If she added that one of the items was a brand new azure-colored bra and another an old borrowed pair of her lace panties, they never let on. So even after our marriage, my Friday lessons continued. A year or so later, when Sharon returned from her night out I was still sharing with her some new insight gained, some new trick for using eyeshadow or face powder or necklaces. "I'm so lucky," she'd exclaim often. "I have such a marvelous husband! He teaches me so many things! Whenever other women admire my chic I confess to them that you set the example and I merely follow!" "You mean you tell them I wear women's clothes to show you how?" The women at the office all knew that Sharon had an assertive temperament, and that explained to them why I seemed to be compensating by yielding, by becoming the softer, more accommodating partner. Why my facial expressions were becoming increasingly more delicate, even vulnerable. But did she tell them outright that I cross-dress? Did she tell her Friday night crowd how I spend my Friday nights at home? I was shocked! If Sharon was delighted to come home and find me dressed and made up, looking like a debutante or a sex kitten and pleased to tell her how it felt, and if the sex that followed her questioning was great, that was one thing. That was private. But I didn't want her friends to know about our ... game. It compromised my manliness in their eyes and my own. I told her as much. Sharon didn't hesitate to point out that my manliness was compromised anyhow, each time I dressed up or made myself look pretty. "Why should it bother you what I tell them? I'd love to show you off to everyone, babydoll! I'm so proud of you, how much you've learned, how much you care! But do I tell anyone? No. They know I ask your advice about my oufits, that you have marvelous ingenuity and taste about women's fashions. But that's all they know. They sometimes wonder why I never invite them here to meet you, and I explain that Fridays are your special time for communion with the feminine in your own way, and you're learning so much I wouldn't want you disturbed. They don't know that on Fridays, to your credit, you become one of us as best you can, your looks indistinguishable. They also don't know that Sundays are our special girl appreciation days, when we become two girlfriends going out together, no way a man and a woman or a husband and wife. They do know that each Friday evening you come up with more and more marvelous new ideas, new ways to look and feel even more feminine. For example, how last month you showed me several new ways to achieve female orgasms." I'd read about them in "Cosmopolitan," an article called "Your Orgasm -- Guaranteed!" The piece was published with drawings and elaborate anatomical explanations. I'd tried showing them to Sharon, but she'd insisted I demonstrate them -- "I want to know what you've learned," she'd said. "Not what they're teaching." For the next two weeks we'd tried out various strenuous positions that were perfect for her. A few times she didn't require even preliminary instruction -- she'd bent into the right posture, we'd fucked, and she just came and came. Afterward she couldn't have been more grateful. "When you're ready, I want to try these positions with you," she'd said with a slight grin. I didn't trouble to point out that our anatomies didn't quite allow reciprocity. On all other days -- sometimes even on Sundays -- we made love as men and women do. The usual ways. On Fridays only as women. Understandably, perhaps, because on Fridays I scarcely resembled a man, not when she left the house nor when she got home. On Fridays she'd leave her "girlfriend" and then return to her, and then we'd talk as women do about women's things. And make love as women do. It all got to seem natural enough. I grew ever more aware of women's desires and yearnings, and I became increasingly skilled with my lips and fingers. My skin grew softer, and Sharon began to find pleasure in stroking my curves from shoulder to waist to hip, as I did hers. On Fridays I'd even change into a diaphanous nightgown before getting into bed with her -- it felt more delicate, yielding, more appropriate for the tender cuddles and delicate kisses that followed and seemed preferable, on Fridays, to penetrative sex. Not always. There came a series of week nights when I felt uncommonly aggressive, and yearned to bury myself in her, and did so, building to vigorous thrusting, pounding her relentlessly before we both finally came and I rolled off her. It was good to feel altogether manly for once. "Feeling pleased with yourself, girlyboy?" she asked me on one of those occasions as my cock deflated. My masculine ego deflated along with it. "You bet," I replied, feeling a little miffed. Was that 'girlyboy' a put-down or a compliment? "Aren't you?" "It's good," she conceded. "Hard fucking is always good, that's undeniable. I do love it. But that isn't where I want you to go.". "What do you mean?" "You'll see," she promised. And kissed me on each of my eyelids to reassure me. Of something. That Friday night I read a book advising me to look out at the world with wide-eyed wonder, because then I'd seem innocent and admiring. That people enjoy being seen that way, men especially. I enhanced my eyeliner and eye-shadow for emphasis accordingly, and was practicing just that when Sharon came home carrying a package. I looked at it and at her with wide-eyed wonder. "I brought us a present," she said smiling at the apparent effect she'd had on me. "No need to marvel, though I think it's marvelous and I suspect you will too." She unwrapped a box. There was a bare-chested, grinning 'Playgirl'-type hunk pictured on the cover, six-pack abs and all. Square-jawed, I saw. Then she opened the box and pulled out what appeared to be a pair of sturdy stretch panties. And something else. My God, a prick! A larger-than-life-size penis, pink and fully erect and looking remarkably real, striated with veins along its considerable length, with a bulbous purple head. Huge! She held it reverently, her manicured fingertips touching the shank here and there as if testing its firmness, as if stroking it. It seemed to grow even larger. "Where's the rest of him?" I asked, trying to make a joke. The thing intimidated me! "It attaches to the panties here," she said, touching its base to a plastic fixture on the panty crotch. "There's a smaller removeable dildo inside to pleasure any woman wearing it, but you don't have anywhere to put something like that." She looked up at me grinning. "Not yet, anyhow!" Then helpfully, as she offered the panty and prick to me with outstretched hands, she added, "I thought you'd prefer wearing a panty-dildo to a strap-on. I know I would." "Me?" I asked, bewildered but also awed by the sheer magnitude of that fleshy ... thing. My own was no match by comparison. A small pickle, a gherkin. A cocktail frankfurter. An hor doeuvres. Maybe not even that. "Girls use these on each other," she commented. "And on Fridays that's what we arre, sweetie, aren't we? Girls?" She waited. I nodded, still staring wide-eyed at the thing. "Aren't you eager to see how I'll respond when you fuck me with this?" Truth to tell, I wasn't. I could feel my own cock and balls shrivel as I studied the monster. And just as well, or they'd have been even more crushed when I pulled on those elastic panties. Without pausing for the usual interrogation of my night's reading, Sharon gestured for me to attach the dildo and pull on the panties, so I did. The thing bobbed obscenely in front of my groin as I stood there. Sharon lay back on our couch and opened her legs wide, her eyes never leaving mine. "Fuck me, lover," she said hoarsely. "Never mind lubricating that cock with your mouth this time. Next time, maybe. Tonight I'm already wet, dripping. Just fuck me!" I leaned over her and with a sinking in my gut did just that. I pushed. Nothing happened at first, then slowly she stretched to accommodate that awesome thing, and at last it was all the way inside her, pinning her down. She could scarely move. But each time I wriggled it even slightly a moan escaped her, and when I began an in and out motion she keened, then screamed! Then for ten minutes she never ceased cumming and screaming! I could have gone on for hours -- I felt nothing of course -- but I feared for her voice and eventually pulled out. She lay there still for a moment. "Wow, Mattie," she said hoarsely. Then just lay there breathing heavily. I could say nothing. What could she want with me after fucking something like that? During the week I was so reluctant to fuck her with my own dingus that she had to ask me why. When I finally brought her to a breathless tension if not a climax with it, she smiled at me. "That was so sweet," she said. "It's such a dear little thing, Matt. I do love it." And she patted it on the head! In comparison, the following Friday's fucking with that dildo drove her over the top into shrieking mindlessness. She couldn't get enough of it! This time I kept her at peak for nearly two hours, and when I finally pulled out to ease my leg cramps, she instantly fell asleep. It bothered me at first that she responded so overwhelmingly to that artificial cock and much more moderately to my own. But I began to realize that on Fridays, dressed and made up as I was, looking and acting as I did, I wasn't Matt. I was her girlfriend "Mattie" and as such providing her with delicious lesbian sex. Realizing this, I took refuge in it and began to take pleasure in her pleasure. One Friday, a discussion of the celebrity infidelities reported in "People" led to our gossiping about one of the girls at the office we suspected of tom-catting around, then about two men there we were sure slept with any girl they found willing. I said something derogatory about girls who sleep around with just anybody, and Sharon paused to stare at me. "Oh no," she said. "Some girls prefer it. Different strokes with different folks. You have no idea, do you?" There was a long paise, and then suddenly she asked me if I'd ever wondered what it was actually like, whether I'd want to sleep with "our guy." I was stunned until I realized she meant only our near equivalent of a guy, our monster dildo. I decided that she was joking and said so. "It would never fit into me -- it needs a birth canal," I said. "Something that stretches." But she wasn't joking. "I think you'd love it," she said. "I really do. And you'd stretch -- all women learn to adapt. Mattie, it's time you lost your virginity as well as your purely theoretical understanding of these matters. You need to know for yourself why women love the feel of a man's cock inside them. You know a lot about using a boner to give orgasms, but not how to enjoy one yourself. That's why it's so thrilling to arouse a boner in someone else. I bet you don't even know how to rotate your bottom on a stiff dick until it locates your G-spot! Give it some thought, sweetie, and when you think you're ready, ask me. Maybe next time? Next Friday?" I saw clearly enough what she wanted, and all through the next week I was unable to find a reason why not. So she was pleased when, the next Friday, after I'd fucked her to two orgasms with our dildo, I asked her to try it out on me. "Of course I will, darling," she said. "I thought you'd never ask." And as she reached for lubricant she said, "Tell me how you'll imagine him, your lover man, when he's inside you. What kind of a cute hunk will be fucking you? Strong, and blond, and square-jawed?" "I'll want to imagine it's you," I said. "And I'll want it face-to-face so I can see it's you. Not some cute guy." She didn't reply, didn't even change expression. Was she disappointed? "OK," she replied curtly. "Lie back while I pull up my erection. I'm going to ream your ass, and you're going to love it and beg for more!" Well, I didn't beg. Not that first time, anyhow. We used the missionary position, my ass elevated high on pillows, my legs on her shoulders, her breasts hanging down on me and now and then squashing against my chest. The thing projecting from her crotch felt painfully uncomfortable when she first managed to push it into my ass. It took me time to work out how to relax. Sharon didn't quite seem to know how to advise me, vacillating from concerned affection -- "Does this feel good, baby? Is deeper better?" to manly bravado when she hit her stride and her pelvis began to cram into me repeatedly -- "Take it, cunt! Take it!" I took it. But I've got to admit, after a few repetitions during the next weeks it began to feel ... well, really good to be fucked by that fake cock. An odd craving for fulfillment would arise from inside my bottom and grow stronger through my whole lower area and I'd clamp my legs and arms around her and squeeze closer her to me, feeling compelled to make her mine and never allow her to leave me. I finally comprehended how women do feel when making love, among other things incredibly grateful and possessive. I even began daydreaming about it during the week. A few Fridays later when Sharon insisted on fucking me doggy style I let her. I mean, I let her lean on my back and push that fat dildo on her crotch high up into my guts. My cock leaked sperm and fluid the whole time as the dildo massaged and milked my prostate from inside my ass. Yet, even though I clamped down hard on her cock with my ass muscles, I never climaxed, and I felt strangely unfulfilled when she orgasmed and then withdrew, pulled off her dildo panties, and turned away to sleep. "'Wham, bam, thank you ma'am' is that it?" I asked her. She turned back, amused. "Well, at least you know nor how women feel when men aren't being considerate," she said. "How we all want our own orgasms too, the bigger the better! Don't worry, it'll be better for you next week." Next week we did it again doggy style. But this time she took my penis into her soft hand and as it stiffened she slid it back and forth each time her cock entered and retreated in my ass. It felt as if she were caressing my clit while fucking my cunt. Maybe she was! The two sensations blended. Wonderful! "What kind of guy am I?" she asked breathlessly when she was nearing her climax and sensed I was near mine. I knew this time what she wanted to hear. "Big muscles, blond hair and a square jaw," I managed to gasp. And then I spurted uncontrollably all over the sheets. She gripped me in her fist as I spasmed, squeezing out the last drops. It wasn't true of course. The whole time I'd been imagining that the guy fucking me was my beloved, darling wife Sharon, as she was. When I climaxed, that moment, I clenched down repeatedly on that dildo inside me and oh, she was my darling, exquisite, incredibly beloved -- oh, God! -- my mindblowing Sharon! It was Sharon's pole inside me! My soft Sharon's beloved cock! I only wished it was a warm part of her so she could feel me appreciating it with my ass muscles. Sharon may have sensed my it, and was grateful to me for trying. trying. "We can be lesbians mostly," she said. "But you do need to understand heterosexual women too. Remember, you married one. I do love cock! I want you to understand why women love to be fucked by men! Over and over, by men! Why sometimes we can never get enough!" She said that so emphatically I just stared at her, wondering. She understood my bewilderment, but didn't back off. "To understand women, you need to desire men," she informed me. "You need to feel that a man's body and cock can be enticing. A turn-on. At least a little!" So for the next few Fridays when Sharon came home we only made love Sharon's way, man to woman, Sharon being the man. Face to face and doggie style. Face to face she was Sharon, her body everywhere and undeniably soft, her breasts draped all over me, her belly rubbing on my bursting prick. When we did it doggie style, as her cock and her hand brought me near to climax she always asked me how I was imagining her as a man. I'd try to describe one or another of those long-cocked "Playgirl" studs or handsome Hollywood lovers, and that would satisfy her. Always, we began with my kissing that dildo, then taking it into my mouth and lavishing affection on it of sorts. It was giving me some pleasure and my beloved Sharon lots, so I felt grateful to it, kindly, even affectionate. I was beginning to understand what women desire in men and why. At least a little. So our late Friday night sex varied. Mostly we were both women. Sometimes we were just girls together, sometimes using the dildo on each other and sometimes just our tongues. Other times my "training" required her to be a buff 'man' and fuck my ass vigorously. Even on ordinary weekdays, now and then she'd try to make me out to be one of those same broad, tanned men fucking her vigorously, powerfully, tirelessly with my huge cock -- with the dildo. I objected at first -- I was me, and didn't want to be some other man. But she liked the idea -- I supposed it gave her an opportunity to be adulterous without committing adultery. As she orgasmed she'd shriek whatever my supposed name that day, and she'd run her hands over and over my supposedly muscular chest. Though as time went on that required more and more imagination on her part. Because my chest was growing softer and softer. Yes, part of my 'training' was to allow birth control hormones to take took hold and begin to alter my body. She got them from a friend, and also a big bottle of another kind, and she began to insist that I take mine along with her, every morning. I asked her, "Why not just on Fridays?" She merely looked at me -- "It doesn't work that way," was all she said. So I took them -- it was one more woman thing for me to understand, and one more test of my commitment to her. My love was hers for life, so she didn't think I'd object to my body being equally committed for life to her desires. I wasn't surprised when my thin male body, not unlike a girl's to begin with, eventually began to hint at a rounded woman's body. Just like in the adolescent girls' books I'd read. Though I knew better than to await my first period. My female puberty especially excited her. When lumps first appeared behind my nipples she was delighted -- "Just like me when I was twelve!" she cried. "Isn't it wonderful?" I nodded. I didn't feel the same excitement, but as long as she wasn't turned off by being married to a man with tits I couldn't complain. In fact the reverse was the case, so I had no reason whatever to complain. She loved my breasts the way I loved hers. Within two years they'd become B cups, plump and jutting. When I wore form-fitting or form-displaying blouses and dresses my bras at last had something to shape and display. She loved them when we made our Friday night girl on girl love, our breasts mashed together or hanging over each other's mouths, and she suckled me as avidly as I suckled her. Sometimes she fell asleep nursing on me while I held her in my arms like an overgrown baby, feeling incredibly tender. I do confess it, I loved them too. I finally had an impressive cleft to display -- or seem to conceal -- when wearing one of my low-necked blouses or dresses. Yet they weren't embarrassing, because most of the time my men's undershirts or loosely bloused dress shirts held in and covered them well enough. Growing new boobs and a woman's shape was merely one more thing I was doing for my beloved Sharon, and she was endlessly appreciative. In time, so was I. I loved it that clothes designed for a woman's figure displayed mine flatteringly, especially as my hips and tush also filled in and my curves actually began to look ... well, attractive. A little like Sharon's. She didn't mind. In fact it amused her when my Vogue-approved, fashionably long pencil-skirts began to look stretched, not quite appropriate on my wider hips, just as I'd predicted that first night when she'd gone off and left me to study magazines in her apartment. No problem, I filled in with A-line skirts more appropriate to my womanly proportions. To look attractive began to seem exciting -- I loved browsing through stores to discover the perfect little vest or pullover that felt just like 'Me.' When Sharon suggested I dress as a woman to go shopping on occasional weekday evenings, I could only agree. Our lives developed in that set pattern. On Friday evenings while she was out I'd extend my knowledge of women and women's affairs, including their sexual affairs, and then I'd have sex with Sharon, sometimes as a woman with a woman and sometimes feeling fucked by a man. Occasionally I was the man, but never as me. She'd ask me to use that huge dildo on her, to pretend I was one of those imaginary fantastic guys from "Playgirl," to help her imagination commit adultery with them. To please her I did just that. It wasn't for real, after all. Then, Sundays we'd spend more appropriately as women together, all day, doing womanly things out on thre town. That was when I lost all self-consciousness, all thoughts of myself as a man in drag. On Sundays I became a woman accompanying a dear friend, and whether we were in women's shops or department stores or museums or restaurants or merely strolling in the park, the two of us chatted comfortably, at ease as women are together anywhere. It was all relaxed and friendly. Comfy, nice. We both felt it that way and treasured it. I came to look forward to those Sundays! A few times when some man ventured to talk with us we'd allow him to feel welcome, and while he chatted we'd carry on sly glancing conversations about him with our eyes. That was such fun! Once we went to a bar, a respectable place with a small dance band, and a courtly, elderly gentleman asked me to dance, and I accepted. It felt good to be led around the floor gracefully, responding instinctively and willingly to his body motions. He in turn was grateful that I allowed him to hold me. Sharon congratulated me when he returned me to her, thanked me, and disappeared elsewhere. "I doubt I'd have danced with him if he'd been thirty years younger," I had to confess to her. "That might get too dangerous." "You're afraid you might have fallen for him?" she asked, eyebrows raised. She seemed disappointed that I wouldn't feel flattered by such an offer. So she began actively encouraging me to flirt with the younger men we encountered -- she wanted me to enjoy the thrill all women know when they're teasing and manipulating men's desires. I did, some, cautiously, more to please her than to amuse myself. And a few times I did feel something of that thrill. She was pleased when she saw it in my eyes -- it helped 'authenticate' me, she said. So a few times I actually did accept a younger man's invitation to dance, and if it was a slow dance and I could feel his semi-rigid cock rubbing against my belly, I'd try to feel excited. But except that it testified to my power over him, or at least over his cock, I wasn't excited. "Young men may get to you yet," she told me hopefully when I reported on my feelings to her. "We'll give it more time." But I still preferred girls. "I guess I'm a confirmed lesbian," I told her. She merely nodded. "We'll see," was all she replied. Sundays, as she put it, I was 'myself.' But Fridays remained a day when I was obliged to extend and strengthen my femininity. We'd dress together, she'd leave, and I'd read, or watch beauticians' tapes, now and then chick flicks or soap operas, and then she'd return, disappear to freshen up, come down again, and we'd chat about whatever I'd seen or read during my five hours or more of mental excursions through her world. Increasingly my own alternative world. Increasingly my own alternative self. Sometimes I devoted my Fridays to dress styles or hairdos. For our first wedding anniversary I committed myself and had my salon give me her exact style of cut -- it seemed a little soft to me but she thought the way it framed my face was enchanting, and the girls in the office found it 'flattering.' Sometimes we talked about women's place in what was once called a man's world. Always we discussed other women's personal relationships and intimacies, and I learned some shocking things about some of the other girls we worked with. Then we'd make love. On Fridays evenings as all day Sundays I was as close to my own woman