Clothes Make The Man Part 1 free porn video

Clothes Make the Man Some words before: I have been starting and discarding stories, not getting anywhere because I keep finding myself writing clich?s. My partner, who does not like Fictionmania but indulges me, suggested that I deliberately choose a clich?d story line and run with it. So here is the first half of a "condemned to wear women's clothes as a punishment" story. My real interest is how people change and grow. This very long story and develops slowly, just like people. I hope you enjoy it. MW Chapter 1. Home Sweet Prison I looked at the pile of clothes, neatly folded and alien. "I suppose I have no choice." McCarthy gave a shake and tilt of the head. "I'll give you some privacy" she said and left the room. I was lucky in McCarthy. I could have had a real bastard as a parole officer; instead I got one who showed some sympathy for my situation. We met at my new abode and after the corrections officers left sat down in the microscopic living/dining room. McCarthy read me the rules on community arrest. She took me through the electronic bracelet. She showed me the limits of travel on a map; I couldn't leave the Town of Colonie without permission, and explained how much time I had to get from the house to my new job. When she was done and I had run out of questions she guided me to the bedroom and left me with a set of clothes. I don't know what I was expecting but a light blue and grey running suit and a white and blue striped t-shirt was a relief. I pushed around the clothes a bit and stared at the pale blue panties and the brassiere. I shoved my fingers into one of the foam mounds and then, sighing, began to take off the tan and orange jumpsuit I had lived in for the past seven months. As I undressed I looked around the little room, deliberately not glancing at the clothes. The bedroom wasn't more than ten by twelve with a single window and cheap blinds. A double bed, a small bedside table with a lamp, a chair and a dresser were the only furnishings. A cheap clock radio sat on the dresser. I thought back to my bedroom in my Manhattan condo and wondered at the injustice of the world. By the time I had mentally railed against judge, jury, and society I had managed to figure out the brassiere and stuff in the foam fillers. Panties, t-shirt and running suit followed and I shoved my feet into the canvas scuffs I had been wearing. The New York State Department of Corrections wanted their jumpsuit back; at least they were letting me keep the shoes. "Mr. Stanley, are you dressed?" "I guess." McCarthy came in and to her credit barely smirked at all. She asked again if I had any questions, had me sign a few forms and told me she'd drop by on Wednesday evening. Then, giving a wave, she let herself out. I might have slumped on the bed but I fought against the desire to hide and explored my new abode. It was one of the nine rental properties I used to own and the only one the court left to me. I don't know why the judge chose this one; maybe because it was the smallest or possibly because it was the furthest from New York City. Whatever, it was a winterized cottage at best and a bungalow in reality. I went back out into the living room looking at the cheap furniture and noted the lack of a television; oh for the days of my Sony 42 inch flat screen. No artwork hung on the drab off-white walls and the carpeting was worn. The kitchen was no better, reeking of the 1970's. It was when I went into the second bedroom that I had a wonderful surprise. There in all their glory were my exercise bike and treadmill. During my incarceration it was the limited chances to get exercise that I hated the most. I stared at the two machines for a good minute before I saw the envelope taped to the handlebars. "Dear Max, I and your lawyer fought with the courts over this but we won. It isn't much but of all the things in your old place that we could save I thought these might mean the most. Give me a call, Sid." Dear Sid; when my city friends deserted me and my family disowned me it was Sid, the most conservative and churchy of my acquaintances, who proved true. He let me know in that he thought me a skunk and a sociopath but he never forgot that I was human. I peeked in the basement, empty except for a water heater and a washing machine and dryer. I opened the few closets, but studiously ignored the clothes, and then I was done. Back in the bedroom I opened up the purse McCarthy left on the dresser and idly nosed through the wallet noting the driver's license, Parole Division card, the two ten dollar bills and the five ones. I poked my nose in the bathroom and laughed a bitter laugh at the thin towels hanging on the bar. Less than a year ago I lived in a 550 square foot condo on West 63rd Street with a doorman, a garage and of course a 42 inch TV and thick terry towels. I owned rental properties in Brooklyn, Westchester, Putnam, and north, had a portfolio of stocks and bonds and was the sole owner of MyWebScape. At 37 years of age I was sitting pretty and even if I was divorced and momentarily without a partner at least I could always depend on some pretty woman accepting an invitation to dinner and possibly bed. If only I had been content but like most entrepreneurs I was desperate to expand and that meant that my web site hosting and management company took on any and all clients and I went looking for financing. I discovered, OK I knew it already, that prosecutors take a very harsh view of businessmen who grossly inflate the value of their firms in order to get loans. This is especially the case when the business runs into trouble and starts to default. I might have gotten away with a fine and probation if the prosecutors hadn't decided to take a hard look at MyWebScape. Most of the sites were innocuous but there were a few that to quote the judge "... greatly exceed the acceptable limits set by law and society. Mr. Stanley your company hosted, managed and even helped design sixteen pornographic web sites that demeaned women and men, portrayed women as objects and promoted a sadistic lifestyle." It wasn't really that bad, OK, but in the prior ten years social views had changed and by the time the court was done with me I was fined so heavily that my assets were sold off, I was sentenced to three years house arrest, 6,000 hours of community service at minimum wage and, oh yes, to live the three years dressed as a woman "...so Mr. Stanley you can come to understand what it means to gawked at, pointed at, laughed at and objectified as your business did to so many woman in an...." The judge went on for what seemed like hours in his sentencing lecture and my lawyer, who I have only good things to say about, leaned over and whispered "Frankly Max, I think you got off lightly." And so there I was on a Saturday afternoon sitting in a two by four cottage in Albany County New York, one step away from flat broke, dressed in a brassiere, panties and a woman's running suit and wondering what would happen next. All I could imagine was that the doorbell would ring and it would be the Welcome Wagon. I shook my head, wandered into the kitchen to investigate what resources I had and make a cup of coffee. My thoughts turned to escape of course. I had been left with a small fund that I could not get my hands on but did provide me with a few hundred dollars a month income. If I could somehow get those funds I'd have something to work with, but I had no passport, no credit cards and very little cash. I had a car, oh yes my old battered Ford for what that was worth. When I owned MyWebScape the company had a car that I used and a BMW 3 Series is a wonderful thing. Now, echh, this was the car I kept in the Hamptons to loan to friends who borrowed my beach house there. There were a series of envelopes on the kitchen counter and one by one I opened them. The first was instructions regarding the electronic bracelet; how to insert it into the reader, what to do if the battery light started flashing, and so forth. The second envelope was another copy of the sentencing and parole papers, making it three copies I now had. The third contained a check book from a local bank which showed a one hundred dollar balance and information about the fund. The fourth envelope was from Jake Carlisle my lawyer. Carlisle expressed his sympathy and thought that we got about as good a verdict as we might have hoped for (the prosecutor asked for a ten year sentence), he hinted that the funds the court allowed him didn't fully cover his fees, and then ended with a comment that made my pulse race. "I gathered from the parole team that you would be starved for cash and I think that is unfair. So here's a hundred in twenties and if you are ever back in funds you can pay me. I'll call you in a few days, Jake." I sat looking at the five twenties and tried to figure out why, of all the people I knew, it was a cousin who considered me a terrible sinner and a lawyer, who I don't think liked me, who were my only supporters. I stood up and stretched feeling the constriction of the brassiere straps. For the first time, I went into the bedroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Ridiculous is not the word. I needed a shave; I was broad shouldered with shaggy hair and a thick neck. I pulled off the running suit top. Hair on my arms and wisps coming through the collar of the t-shirt emphasized how stupid the two mounds and outline of the bra were. I grimaced and checked the time. I would have to think about dinner. In the kitchen I faced an inadequacy. I can't cook. Before my arrest I used the toaster oven, made coffee, microwaved things and usually ate out. The cottage's fridge and pantry were well stocked so somehow I managed to boil pasta, heat up spaghetti sauce and cook up some chicken sausages. As I ate I dreamt about the meals I used to have in Manhattan and chewed on the tasteless food in front of me. It was later, looking out the window at the postage stamp back yard that I felt the walls closing in. I had a car but could not leave my immediate premises. I could sit in the yard, but was fearful of attracting attention. There was no TV, no computer and no CD player. True there were no guards but I was as imprisoned as any con sitting in Attica. Every morning between 7:45 and 8:00 I had to touch my bracelet to the reader and hit the proper buttons. When I arrived at work or left I had to do the same thing. I had to check in every evening by hitting the button between 6:45 and 7:00 and on weekends and holidays I had a noon check as well. That gave me enough time to get to work, do some shopping, maybe drive around the neighborhood but basically I was trapped. The alternative was to break parole and go to jail for five years. I stripped off the clothes and tossed them on the chair. Turning off the light I lay on the bed listening to the sounds of the house. It was cool outside so I opened the window. I decided to buy a good stereo system, and then I remembered I was broke. I lay there staring at the ceiling beyond thought until finally I fell asleep noticing how in the dark the room felt too large and knowing that was because I had spent the past seven months in a cell. Now my cell was larger but the invisible bars no less strong. Chapter 2: Into the Closet Sunday I moped. There was nothing else to do. I couldn't leave the property; there was nothing to read and no TV. That morning I had dressed in the same outfit as before. I made coffee and toast and stared at the walls until frustrated I spent some time on the treadmill and worked up a sweat doing crunches and pushups. Lunch was left over pasta, dinner a can of soup and toast. The rest of the day was mindless pacing and cursing. At least I had the sense to obey the rules and wear the right clothing. McCarthy had warned me that random checks would occur at home and at work and sure enough around 3:00 the doorbell rung. I asked who it was through the closed door. "Open up Max, it's Jane McCarthy and another officer." I opened the door and after giving me a quick up and down glance the two of them swept through the house looking for God knows what. Then McCarthy took a close look at the electronic bracelet, wished me a fine day and stopped and thought. She glanced around the bare room and then told me to wait a moment. She came back from her car quickly and handed me the current NewsWeek. "Don't rot Max." One thing I learned in jail was how to stretch out reading material. You don't read something all at once and by the time I was ready for bed I still hadn't finished the magazine. I showered and was faced with a pile of sweaty clothes. I could put it off no longer I had to find out what I had to wear. When I first looked around the cottage I ignored the clothing hanging in the closets. Now I called to mind a robe I had seen hanging on a hook. It was a knee length oriental thing in dark blue with white embroidery and while a bit fussy for my liking was something a guy might wear. I accept that first few days were a game of avoidance and this exploration no different. I might have started with the bedroom closet but no, first I went to the closet near the front door where I was greeted by my old trench coat, a ratty blue windbreaker from Cape Cod and an upright vacuum cleaner. It struck me that there would be no Monday and Thursday cleaning service to pick up after me. As I touched the trench coat and looked at the windbreaker I mused. "Hmm, if they stick with running suits and other neutral clothing this might not be too bad. Loose sweaters will cover the tits and I can live with some second glances. " The spare bedroom closet yielded another running suit in pale grey and dusty pink as well as cleaning materials such as a broom and dustpan. There just weren't enough closets in the little house. I could stall no longer. I went into my bedroom, opened up the closet door and pulled on the string hanging from the light fixture. It amazes me that such a small amount of clothes could seem so threatening. Even in the little closet there was more space than garments. I stood and looked and tried to make sense of my emotions. On one hand I was lost as to what I how supposed to choose something to wear, on the other hand pissed that my warders had been so cheap. Closest to the door hung a bright yellow dress. To my eyes it looked like a tube with two straps on the top and I immediately decided that I would never put it on. Next to that was a less threatening garment. True it was also a dress but it looked as though someone had taken a dark blue short-sleeved shirt and forgotten when to stop. Some stitching around the middle formed a waistline and a row of black buttons ran down to the bottom which I guessed was about knee length. Behind that hung two skirts, one in tan and one in light blue. I turned my back on them to see what the other rail held. A couple of buttoned shirts hung neatly on plastic hangers. They ranged from the innocuous, white, to "you have got to be kidding" pink with yellow flowers. A few pastel polos hung there as well. On the shelf above the rail were folded a lightweight white sweater and a flowered sweatshirt. I looked down and saw the tan sandals, black loafer-like shoes and a pair of running shoes. I walked backwards until my legs touched the edge of the bed and plunked down. Shivering in fright and anger I cursed and wanted to throw something but the only thing at hand was a pillow. Again I thought about grabbing the little cash I had, cutting off the bracelet and running for it. I even briefly thought about the knives in the kitchen and stabbing myself. Finally I exploded in tears and anger. "Fucking bastard" I kicked the pillow. "Sitting behind his desk and lecturing me about morality. Bastard probably downloads kiddy porn and screws his law clerk." I slammed the closet door shut and stormed into the living room. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" When I calmed down I went back to the bedroom and stared at the dresser. It looked like something purchased from Ikea, put together by a stoned housewife and then left on the lawn with a "for free" sign. Three full-length drawers were topped by a split drawer, all in a light colored veneer that screamed "no-one gave a shit when they purchased me." I pulled open the bottom drawer and laughed. While awaiting trial I got to know an old thief who, refusing to believe that anyone wouldn't want to be a crook, lectured me on techniques. "When you're searching bureaus Maxie, always open from the bottom. Then you won't waste time closing a drawer to see what's in the next one up. Also closing a drawer is nosier than opening one." The bottom drawer was empty. The next one contained neatly folded t- shirts and a pair of light blue shorts. There was also a pair of denim pants but they barely came below my knees and I swore I would never wear them. The third drawer was the hard one to deal with. Folded on one side were brassieres with sales tags still attached. I pushed them about a bit and counted three white and two black. Taking a black one out I held it up. Between undressing my ex Stacie and a few lovers I've held brassieres many times. This time it was different and I looked at the label. "42 C". "Christ on a crutch". I tossed it back in the drawer. Two white panties, also with tags lay next to an unopened package of dark panties and a package of pastel panties with one removed. I remembered Stacie commenting how she never wore underwear straight from the store but always washed it first. I guess I wouldn't have a choice. I tore open the package and pulled out a pair of black panties. I snorted at the three cartons each containing a pair of panty hose and the little envelopes containing knee-high hose. All that was left in the drawer after that were three pair of white athletic sox still draped over their miniature hangers. I went back to the closet and pulled the blue dress off the hanger and draped it over the chair along with the pantries and a black brassiere. "Okay world I'm ready" I snorted "yeah right." The two little drawers at the top were empty with the exception of a small envelope with "The NYS Div. of Parole" printed on the top. I tore open the edge and let the contents fall out; a thin silver necklace with a black bead in the middle and a note; "You have three years to learn what it means to be a productive member of society. The New York State Division of Parole is here to help you. Wear the enclosed and when you feel yourself panicking touch it and remember you can call us." Chapter Three: Back Office Blues I have spent many restless nights before and after that Sunday but none so tormented and sleepless. I would have loved to have called in sick and just pulled the knobby cotton spread over my head and hidden. When I did sleep I had dreams of Stacie laughing at me and trying to get me to try on women's clothes. When I was awake I sweated all of the horrors I was sure would occur. At one point I thought about how much lunch might cost and then realized I would never be able to step out of the office to eat at a diner. I got up and threw two pieces of cheese between slices of bread and wrapped it in foil. I gave up about 5:30, turned on public radio and sat in bed staring at the bedroom wall and banging against mental walls. So what if my company hosted porn sites. Hah, probably half the jury looked at porn on the web. Yeah I got caught inflating the value of MyWebScape and some of the business expenses I claimed were really personal but that's standard in business. Anger got me through the next hour and I wrapped the robe around me and stumbled into the kitchen to make a strong pot of coffee. Saturday I lowered the blinds or pulled the curtains on every window and lived in a state of twilight. Now I automatically pulled up a blind and looked into the lens of a press photographer. I froze for a second and dropped the blind. I hurried to the front of the house, peaked through the curtains and damn, there were a more people with cameras and voice recorders standing on the lawn. It hadn't occurred to me that I would have to face the press but remembered what Carlisle once told me. "Always smile unless you are apologizing. Never lie to a reporter. If you are pleasant to them and make their job easier they might just be easier on you." I sat down and drank some coffee and nibbled on a piece of toast and cheese. "Okay, I have reporters in the front yard. I also might have mice in the basement or a giant moose in the attic. I can deal with this. I can deal with this." I put away the coffee cup and went into the bedroom and faced the chair. Breathing deeply I made up a mantra and recited it. "Max if you don't act up, if you bore them to tears, in a few days you will be yesterday's news." Teeth brushed and faced washed I put a hand against the wall and pulled on the panties. I looked down and frankly could see no difference between them and some of the briefs I wore. Yes they had some extra lining in the crotch but that was it. The brassiere took me a minute or two to get straight but with the straps lengthened and the foam pads shoved in I was ready for my next act. I tied the robe around me and walked through the living room and kitchen opening blinds and curtains. Ignoring the clustering of cameras I picked up the NewsWeek, straightened a chair and went back into the bedroom, where I closed the door, leaned against the wall and tried not to hyperventilate. Checking the clock I saw it was time to dress. I now know that you don't need to unbutton every button on a dress but on that day I did and then fought with wrong-sided button holes for a few minutes before getting myself decent. I swung open the closet door and looked at the full-length mirror. To my surprise the dress actually fit me. The week before I was released I was pulled aside and under the sardonic eyes of a guard measured every which way to Sunday. They did a good job and if I looked asinine at least it was a good fit. The loafer type shoes needed socks or, I guess hose, so I shoved my feet into the sandals and stumbled as I discovered the heel. It was a low heel but even that little bit caught me unawares. Back in the bathroom I pulled a comb through my unruly hair a few times and gave up. I pretended not to notice the neatly lined up cosmetics in the small medicine cabinet. Having no watch I listened for the start of the eight o'clock news and when it began I grabbed the keys, picked up my purse, took a deep breath and froze with my hand on the handle of kitchen door. A face stared at me through the glass and my own deer-in-the-headlights face reflected back at me. Finally I opened the door to begin the eight foot walk to the detached one car garage. Flashes were going off and questions thrown at me left and right. I lifted the door, turned to the reporters and smiled. "Please give me a break. I don't think the courts would be happy if I started talking to the press and anyway I'm afraid I'll put my foot in it." I got into the car and managed to back it out despite the three people hanging on the body work. Stopping in the driveway I had an idea and rolled down the window. A young man with a camera and recorder in his hands was closest. "Hi, what's your name and what paper are you with?" "Uh, I'm Adam Rickett, Times Union." "Glad to meet you. I'm Max Stanley." I shoved my hand out the window, waited until he juggled his equipment, and shook my hand. "Do me a favor, please shut the garage door. Thanks." The reporters seemed stunned by my request and as Rickett shut the door I backed into the street, waved and drove off. One photographer took a last picture then gave me a wave and a sardonic smile. Breathing again I concentrated on directions. It should take me 20 minutes to make it to my new workplace. Then I realized I had forgotten to place my bracelet against the reader and push the button to show I was leaving for work. "Oh shit and double damn." I pounded on the steering wheel in frustration and turned the car around to go back home and face again the phalanx of reporters. Only Rickett was still there. He quickly put away his cell phone and I asked him not to make me late for my first day at work. He followed me and watched as I pressed the bracelet against the small box next to the phone. The lights turned red, then yellow and then green. I pushed a button and waited for the green light to blink. As I pushed Rickett in front of me he asked question after question and I responded with, "please don't make me late" and "I'm running behind". I felt like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland but managed to get out the door, lock up and get back in my car pretty quickly. I kept my speed up as I high as I could without tempting a cop to pull me over and with two minutes in hand turned into the strip mall which housed The Tri-County Family Relief Fund. I knocked on the door and stepped into another facet of my new life. The woman who opened the door for me gave me a raised eyebrow, a grimace and a shake of the head. Then she motioned me in and locked the door behind me. "No, let me guess. You are Max Stanley. Oh God, well we'll keep you in the back offices, c'mon. I'm Jane Erlich and I'm the director. We have some paper work to get through." For thirty minutes I was lectured and had papers thrust in front of me to sign. When I was finished I had filled out federal and state tax forms, arranged for electronic deposit of my miniscule paycheck, agreed to a confidentiality statement and was definitely put in my place. The Tri-County Family Relief Fund was not happy to see me, or at least Erlich wasn't. It seems that the State awarded Tri-County a grant significantly larger than my salary and benefits but on the condition that they employee me 40 hours a week. Erlich led me to a back office and brusquely said "Emma he's yours" and walked out the door without a nod in my direction. For a few seconds we stared at each other and then the middle-aged woman looked me up and down and unsuccessfully tried not to smile or chuckle. There was something in the way she grinned that put me at ease and I smiled back. "Ugly isn't it?" "Ugly isn't the word. I'd waver between side-show and horror flick. Hi, I'm Emma and you must be Max. Jane has been warning us about your arrival for the past two weeks with predictions of doom that rival anything in Revelations. Pam is in the bathroom, Mark is out today, he works part-time, and none of the volunteers or front office staff will be in before ten. Let me show you around." There wasn't much to show. I found where the coffeemaker and fridge were and stored my sandwich. I was shown the staff toilet and met Pam who edged around me with a frightened smile as if I were some threatening dog. I was introduced to the copier and shown the front offices where people, mostly women, came to get help with filling out forms, finding support groups, borrowing nice clothing for interviews and stuff like that. "Okay, well you've seen the premises. We have a lot of copying to do and..." at this Emma broke into laughter again. "Oh shit, I'm sorry. Listen for a minute and then I'll shut my big mouth. If you are trying to look like a man wearing woman's clothes and resenting it you are doing fine, but at least stand up straight and trim that hair coming through the neckline. Sorry. Here's the copying. Shout if you have any questions." For two hours I stood in front of a copier feeding it paper, picking up the collated and stapled copies, and feeling my legs and feet ache more and more as unfamiliar shoes with one inch heels did their work on my calves and toes. I tried to forget how I was dressed but I couldn't. Whenever the door to the front office opened it swung a breeze which went around my bare legs. Twice as I turned, one mound or another knocked papers off the copier. And, of course Emma couldn't stop giggling. At least that was better than Pam who came to copy something and held the paper out to me at arm's length as if I was infectious. Copying was followed by stuffing envelopes and that was followed by tri-folding brochures. I managed to go brain dead with the rhythm when Emma jerked my back to reality. "Hey it's lunch time. I'm going to Subway, you?" I said I had brought a sandwich and thanked her and went to make a cup of coffee. At least Tri-County had a modern cup-on-demand machine. I noted the individual mugs clustered around the machine as well as the Styrofoam cups. I grabbed a disposable cup and called my cheese sandwich lunch, knowing I would be hungry well before 5:00 and quitting time. I chewed at my sandwich and nearly spat it out when I caught a glimpse of the day's Albany Times Union. I was on the front cover. "Paroled Felon Starts Community Stay" was the headline and there was a picture of McCarthy leading me to the house on Saturday accompanied by the two DOC gorillas. I read through the article but it said very little and concentrated on the fraud rather than the porn. "They've done you a favor." I looked up. Erlich was leaning against the doorway to the break room. I gave her a puzzled look. "Think about it. Emma says you know how to use a copier; Everything OK?" I wasn't sure how to react. I knew she meant was I finding the bathroom and supplies and stuff like that but the question was an odd one under the circumstances. I just nodded and was surprised to see her sit down across the table. "Look Mr. Stanley we need to get something straight. I am not happy to see you here but I will be fair with you if you do your job and cause no problems for us. I've already chased away the press but they'll be waiting for you at 5:00; can't help you there." She stood up and shoved a cup into the coffee machine and pushed some buttons. Then she turned back to look at me. "You really have to do something with your hair. The salon in this strip isn't bad." Leaving me wide-eyed she took the cup and left. I stood up, stumbled on the sandals; felt the bra strap pull on me and straightening the dress went back to work. Rickett was waiting for me at the house and I talked for a minute or two with him not really answering any questions and managed to get into the house and lock the door without saying what I was really thinking. That would have been front page news; "Reporter Learns New Swearing Technique From Cross-Dressing Felon". With the door shut and the bedroom blinds drawn I sat on the bed and closed my eyes. I was exhausted and let myself drift a little in the quiet of my prison. Chapter 4: Mirror Mirror I probably would have slept past my evening check-in if the phone hadn't awakened me around six. Rolling off the bed I came near to panic. In a half awake state I felt the brassiere pull on me and the bottom of the dress hike up around my legs. I was lost and it took a moment before I could figure out where I was. I was still breathing pretty heavily when I made it to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. A minute later I sat at the kitchen table shaking. It wasn't the obscenity that upset me; it was the sound of total hatred in the caller's voice. I hung up pretty quickly but not before "...and around here we shoot dogs." Should I call the police, or my parole officer? I concentrated on breathing slowly and decided to do nothing. Calls like this were going to be part of the picture. If I kept getting them I'd call the police. I stripped off the dress and started to toss it over the chair, then thinking better of it, hung it in the closet and grabbed the pink running suit from the other room. The pressure of the house and the clothes and the situation kept building up and I was starting to feel dizzy and sick when the phone rang again. Expecting the worst I picked it up. "Mr. Stanley. Hi. My name is Peter Barton and I'm president of the Lewis Hill Homeowners Association. Welcome to the community. Is there is anything we can do to help you settle in?" Poor Peter Barton, months later he told me he was seriously concerned about my level of sanity but to receive a call "Is there is anything we can do to help you settle in?" was just what was required to push me over the edge and I laughed and cried all at once finally catching my breath enough to thank him for the call and scrabble through the kitchen drawers until I found a pad and pencil to take down his number. By the time I slumped on the bed and turned off the lights I had calmed down. A cool shower helped and this time I actually slept instead of just tossing, turning and fitfully dozing. I honestly cannot remember my second day at work. That Tuesday has mercifully slipped away and now, years later, telling you my story, I wish I had kept a diary in those first few weeks. Wednesday however, now Wednesday, remains fixed in my mind and even now I occasionally dream of that day and wake up sweating. It started when I picked up the blue dress and realized that two days of stress had rendered the dress unwearable. The stench hit me hard and I tossed it in the corner. I stood and faced the closet. I ignored the yellow dress and looked at the two skirts. The tan seemed the least threatening and I grabbed a white button down shirt. I knew enough to choose a white brassiere and had become adept at clipping the back band, swiveling it around, thrusting my arms through the straps and tucking in the foam mounds. It was still a struggle to button the wrong way buttons but with the shirt on I picked up the skirt and held it in front of me. "I suppose I could call it a kilt. It's plain anyway. Damn it's short." I stepped into the garment and fastened the buttons at the waist line. A short zipper pulled up easily. Twisting it around I finally figured out that it closed in the back. I swung open the closet door and stared at myself in the mirror. The shirt was all twisted and bunched so I evened that out and looked at the image in front of me. "Oh hell. I'm a fucking freak. I'm a gorilla in a skirt." The skirt wasn't that short but it did come above my knees. I spent a lot of time that day trying to tug it down. Emma was right. The worst part of the image was my chest hair poking out of the collar. I removed the shirt and using the trimmer on my electric razor trimmed my chest hair until the upper area was short. Of course I didn't think about the trimmings and a few got into the brassiere and until I had a chance at the office to lock myself in the toilet I itched like hell. I looked again in the mirror and while I know I looked better without the hair, I felt naked around the neck. Opening the dresser I pulled out the small envelope and put on the necklace. "Right, now I'm beautiful. Shit." When I arrived at work Pam actually said hello. I got down to filing, copying and the rest of the drudgery that was my lot. Erlich commented briefly about the outfit and when I called it a shirt, corrected me. "Women call that a blouse. Not really important but you should get it correct." Twice that day I bent over to pick something up and heard Emma laugh and remind me to use my knees. Once I bent over and heard Pam gasp and turned to see her beet red. In our apologies we both managed to laugh. When work was over I had to face the truth. There just wasn't enough food in the house for me to delay shopping. I briefly thought of asking Emma if she would pick up a few things for me but tossed the idea out. I would pass a Price Chopper on the way home. I had to bite the bullet and shop. I considered driving home and changing to the darker running suit before shopping but I knew the smell of that garment would be as bad as the dress. Facing shopping and laundry I bid Emma and Jane Erlich goodnight and stepped out of the office to face Rickett, camera at the ready. When the judge sentenced me he droned on about how with my intelligence and quick mind I "...could have made a good living doing something of worth to society." I guess I am quick because as I faced Rickett an idea formed. "You aren't going to stop until you get something are you?" "No Mr. Stanley. My editor is biting my ankles pretty hard." "If I give you some time and answers will you promise to leave me alone." "Nope." "No?" "No, I am a reporter. We do not leave people alone. I will say this; if we talk for a bit I won't come back until there is something new to report." I smiled and let my idea fly free. "OK, I tell you what. I need to do some shopping. Follow me to Price Chopper and we'll talk as I shop." I can't remember how many times I told people that I don't fight rivals I co-opt them. I make them partners, unequal partners, but partners. Sometimes they were partners in their own destruction. I put the car in gear and rolled away followed by Rickett's VW and we made our way to the supermarket. Now I am a New York City boy. I was raised in Queens and owned a condo in Manhattan. Supermarkets in the city are limited in size; real estate costs too much. I walked in a Price Chopper for the first time and Oh My God. The thing was the size of a football field. I stood there amazed. I didn't even notice Rickett snapping pictures or the people looking at me with a mixture of disgust and amusement. Finally Rickett snapped me out of my state. "Whats wrong?" "Huh, well after Gristedes this is damn big." I grabbed a cart and we walked the aisles. Keeping a close eye on my budget I purchased very little, just enough to get me through four or five days. I did find a small insulated bag and made sure I picked up a six-pack of beer. It wasn't the imported brand I usually drank, but hell, Budweiser's good enough. In the dairy aisle a group of teenage boys were laughing deliberately loud and I heard one of them going on about my legs. Rickett snickered and fired off a couple of pictures of them before they scattered. I picked up a quart of milk and headed toward a checkout lane. "You aren't buying a lot." "Nope, I am on a very tight budget. Hell I'll only see your article if someone brings the paper into work. I don't have a subscription and can't afford one. " The check out girl looked at me wide eyed for a few seconds before scanning my few purchases. I looked at the total, $33.38; I dug through my purse and as I counted out the bills I heard her ask me if I had an Advantage Card and then tell me if I wanted one I could apply at the Service Desk. I grabbed the two bags and with Rickett following made it to the car. As I put the bags in the back I thought that I had gotten off easy. In the store he had tossed me a few softball questions and I tossed back a few non-committal replies. He leaned against the car and held up a voice recorder. "Mr. Stanley do you think the sentence was fair? Do you think the judge overstepped his authority by making you live as a woman for three years?" I looked him straight in the face and shrugged to gain a moment of time. "I don't know how to answer that. I was surprised by the sentence but I don't think the length is overly long. I don't know what I am supposed to learn or gain from dressing like this. I guess I will have to wait and see." Back home I put away the groceries and went into the bedroom and swung open the closet door. Standing in front of the mirror I looked at myself. I didn't look like a woman and the kind of mockery I was exposed to was not the kind I exposed women to, was it? I never shouted "Oh God look at those legs. I'm gonna die." I adjusted the collar on the shirt; no the blouse. It was time to make dinner, swipe the bracelet and do laundry. I took another look at the mirror. Emma was right. The hair was ridiculous. Chapter 5: Making the Cut I fell into a rhythm. If I planned it right, between driving home slowly, working out, showering, checking in with Parole, doing chores and eating dinner it was after 8:00 before I ran out of things to do. I then put on the radio and vegged. The problem is that sooner or later the weekend comes and with it comes a lot of dead time. I did my best. That first Saturday I read the paper (Rickett must have arranged delivery because it started showing up in the driveway) and ate breakfast at a snail's pace. I cleaned the kitchen and bathroom as best as I could and wrote down things on the shopping list. I did another laundry and managed to stretch that out until after lunch and then it was one o'clock and I had nothing to do. I will swear on any stack of holy books you wish to produce that it was boredom that motivated me and nothing more. I looked at the paper one more time but there was nothing else to read and tossing it aside went into the bedroom and opened the closet. I stepped out of the running pants and tossed my sweaty t-shirt in the corner. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror with the black panties and bra contrasting against my pale skin. I already knew what I looked like in the blue dress and the tan skirt. I took the yellow dress off the hanger and undid the single button on the front. I must have looked at that little piece of yellow fabric for a few minutes before I finally lifted it over my head and shrugged it on. Once again the fit was pretty good though the result was gross. Small tucks in the fabric made it curve over the foam mounds, then it fell straight until is stopped a good four inches above my knees. I stared at the reflection and mumbling random obscenities pulled a small carton out of the dresser and ripped open the top dumping a small pile of tan filament on the bed. Straightening out the panty hose I remembered Stacie in the mornings and rolled the legs before trying to stick my feet in. It took a bit of pulling, adjusting and wiggling but in the end with pantyhose up and dress pulled down I was able to stand again. I pushed me feet into the low brown shoes and looked again in the mirror. "The hair has to go." The hair on my legs formed ugly swirls under the hose, looking worse than when it was plainly visible. One shoulder strap had slipped and the black brassiere strap was poking out. I pulled the dress back into position and started to laugh. "I feel shitty, very shitty, it's a pity how shitty I feel, and so gritty I wish they had not turned down my appeal." And with West Side Story in my head I turned and stared at myself, laughing and crying, only interrupted by the ringing of my phone in the kitchen. I wandered into the kitchen wondering what it would be this time. I could count the number of calls I had received on my fingers and two of them were obscene. Two more were sales pitches. I took a breath and picked up the phone. "Hello. Sid? Thanks for calling. Thanks for the exercise stuff. What? Yeah I guess I am settling in. How are you?" We talked for a bit and I pulled out a pad and copied down phone numbers as he looked them up on his computer. My PDA had disappeared early in the investigation. Sid filled me in on gossip and news and I drank in a taste of the real world. Throughout the call I was very uncomfortable and it was the yellow dress and hose that made me so. I kept feeling as if Sid could look through the phone line and see me sitting there. I kept looking down and seeing the hair through the sheer fabric. I hung up the phone and turned on the stove to heat up some water and stared out the kitchen window. Sid had done his best to cheer me up and remind me that three years was not an eternity. I was grateful for that. What he had really done was wave a bit of the old life in front of me and left me feeling empty. It wasn't an eternity but it was a major chunk out of my life; a chunk of time in which Max Stanley, entrepreneur and man about town was suppressed. I turned off the stove. I didn't really want tea anyway it was just a way to pass the time. Looking down at my legs I shrugged. In the bedroom I stripped down and dropped the clothes on my bed. I went into the bathroom and filled the tub partway. Stacie's biggest complaint was that I never learned anything, whether it was how to fill a dishwasher or which brand of coffee she liked. I guess she was wrong. I remembered exactly how she shaved her legs. With my feet in the water I soaped up my legs and then started to laugh again. Stacie had used a razor and all I had was my electric. I buried my face and cried. It was the culmination of all the weirdness and left me feeling better when I was done. "Oh hell, let's get this over with. Max you need to shop anyway. Put on thy armor and rouse the steed." Shopping was easier this time by the virtue of my wearing the running suit. It was harder because there was no Rickett to make it a performance and less personal. I was pointed at, laughed at but also received a sympathetic nod or two. With razor and shaving cream, kitchen cleanser and sponges and also some food in my bags I headed back to my car. "Excuse me, you're Max Stanley right?" I turned and looked at a young couple who were getting out of their car. "Hard to miss." "Yeah I guess that was a silly question." The man smiled at me. "We live four, no five, houses down from you. We're in the blue ranch with the birdbath." The woman looked at me and smiled. "Robinsons, Jack and Miriam." We stood uncertain of what to say next and then Jack gave a quick wave. "C'mon Miri we've got shopping to do." "Glad to meet you I said." and drove home. As I passed their house a thought came to me. I had spoken to someone other than Parole or Tri- County or the press and more important while I had done so I wasn't aware of how I was dressed. I reached up and touched one of the foam forms to make sure I was really wearing them. Pulling into the drive way I stopped before opening the garage and parking. "Damn, that was nice, a moment of sanity." Back in the house I sat on the edge of the tub with my feet in the cool water. Twenty minutes later I dabbed at the numerous nicks on my legs with a tissue and wondered how much I really had learned from Stacie. Shaving cream had flown everywhere. The bathroom was a mess and my panties damp from sprayed water. I emptied the tub and sat for a while until it seemed the bleeding had stopped. Walking naked from the bathroom to the bedroom I felt the difference. The little breeze generated by walking played on skin that hadn't been hairless since I was about fifteen. I lay on the bed, legs apart and arms spread, feeling the cool air filter through the blinds. I considered going back in and shaving the rest of me but couldn't face the thought of shaving my arms. Somehow losing my chest hair was not as a disturbing. I drifted until a gust of wind rattled the blinds and brought me back to the world. I stared at the ceiling for a moment trying to recall the half-dream I had. It was nice and a bit erotic but all I could remember is a feeling of enjoyment. I sat up and stretched. 4:52, not bad; I managed to kill off most of the afternoon. Looking down I saw the clothes at the foot of the bed. I pulled a pair of white panties from the drawer and a white brassiere. Sitting on the edge of the bed I dressed slowly and while pulling up the pantyhose, for the first time in weeks felt aroused. I kept trying to recall the dream and remember who the woman in it was. I pulled the yellow dress over my head and then slipped my feet into the shoes. Dimly I wondered if maybe the sandals would look better and then faced the mirror yet again. I must have stood and looked at my legs for a full minute before making a decision. Yes the sandals would look better. I kicked off the shoes and pushed my feet into the tan straps and saw how the heels changed the shape of my legs. Unlike earlier that day there was no bitterness. "You know Max you actually have decent legs." I went into the kitchen and poured myself some water and stared at my reflection in the little window above the sink. A comment by Erlich came back and I had an image of myself in a salon chair. I sipped the water and started to laugh but this time is was neither hysteria nor bitterness. When I was through I felt lighter and the hours ahead much less dark. The Sunday paper kept me busy and I sat in panties and a robe until late morning reading every bit except the business section and ads. Those I would save until later. Something had clicked the day before and with the change came a desire to emerge from the dim half-light of the cottage. I dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, yes with the brassiere and forms, and stepped into the back yard. I am a city boy but even I could see the grass was getting too tall. Every day I drove in and out of the garage but I really had to think for a moment. Yes there was a lawn mower. It was one of those push ones with the spiral blades. I opened the garage door and took inventory. I already had used the trash and recycling bins but there was more. The lawn mower leaned against a wall and hanging next to it was a rake and a snow shovel. A push broom sat in the corner and a hose hung from a hook. Feeling better than I had in weeks I pulled out the mower and went to work on the patch of grass in the front. As I worked I considered the minute proportions of the house and lawn. Little strips of grass separated me from my neighbors. Another strip sat between the house and garage and handkerchief sized patches pretended to be a front and back yard. "Well it won't take long to keep this in good order. Thank God. I can't afford to take care of more." I began on the back yard enjoying the feeling of the sun on my neck and the smell of the cut grass. "Hi." I turned quickly enough to stumble a bit and get the mower up on one wheel. A man in his late fifties was leaning on the fence giving me a smile. I smiled and walked over. This was my first chance to meet a neighbor and I wanted to make it work. "I was wondering if you were going to mow the lawn. I like to see a nice neat lawn. Oh I'm Dave Kopald. My wife's Lillian. Yep you've got the start of a decent lawn there. Pity about the flowers but when the Carriers moved out, they went to live with their kids in Virginia, ya see that's why the house was vacant, no one watered the flower bed there. They had some lilies, I prefer annuals myself. You could do with a bush or something." He rambled on mostly about lawn care, but I gleaned bits of information about the neighborhood. A window in his house opened and I heard someone calling him "That's Lillian. She is convinced that you are going to burn down the neighborhood or something. Well keep the lawn up and that house will look real nice. See ya." I raked the grass and went over to the little strip of dirt that had been a flower bed and pulled some weeds. As I moved I felt the bra and beads of sweat ran between the cups. Kneeling down, the grass felt different on my legs. When I was done I walked around the little cottage. No way would it look "real nice" but I could keep it neat. Standing in the front yard I watched two women jog by and then a man walking his dog. The man studiously ignored me, the women stared. I was the new kid on the block, the weird kid on the block, but at least I had a neatly mown lawn. Chapter 6: Sunshine and Rain I stepped out. Monday's rain did not deter me. Perhaps it was Sid's call, or mowing the lawn. Maybe it was finally laughing and crying without bitterness. I stepped out. For the first week I existed alongside people, scared, hoping to disappear. Now I got into my car looking forward to joking with Emma, to saying hello to Pam and Mark and even listening to Mark discuss baseball. I wouldn't say much but it was human contact. I made a mental note to buy an umbrella. I had my trench coat but no hat so it would be a quick and wet dash to the office door. I glanced down and saw the fuel indicator at a quarter. OK I would need to buy gas and I was nearly broke. I'd manage. In the office I shed my coat to reveal the light blue skirt and a polo shirt. I waited to see if anyone would notice my legs but not a word was said. When, after the standard "how was your weekend" greetings were exchanged, I sat down to update a donors' list and realized I was disappointed. I put in time and shed blood to look better and no one noticed. The work on the donors' list required thought but when I sat back to drink a cup of coffee I speculated and a silent conversation with myself ensued. "Do I really care what people see?" "Yes, I don't like being seen in a skirt with these damn tits." "Max, don't bullshit. You know what you mean." "Okay, I was hoping that someone would notice I shaved." "Why?" With that question I stopped thinking and finished my coffee. During the sentencing hearing I was able to brush aside most of the questions but one stuck with me. "Mr. Stanley, you have used the phrases "I hurt nobody" and "people like to look and fantasize" any number of times. Do you believe that what people think about others is unimportant?" Now the question cut too close to the bone. I went back to the list making sure that the addresses matched other records. In a couple of months Tri-County would have its annual BBQ fundraiser. It was open to all, but special invitations would be sent to donors. That meant more copying, stuffing of envelopes and feeding the postage machine. I stood up to get the next batch of files. "Hey Max, I don't mean to get personal, but that looks better. In fact, nice gams." I gave Emma a smile and she gave a thumbs-up signal. "Thanks. I never realized what my ex went through to stay smooth. I gave enough blood to get blood drive credit." Emma laughed. Feeling better I walked to the file cabinets to get on with my work. A couple of times I stopped when a breeze or the passage of my legs reminded me of the difference smooth skin makes. Crossing my legs was a notable occasion and even though no one watched I felt self- conscious. At lunch time I leafed through the local shopping newspaper and laughed at a salon advertisement that offered a package of hair removal treatments. They never would expect someone like me to walk through the door. "Lunch Max?" "Sorry Emma I'm counting my pennies. Maybe next week." "Tri-Counties treat then." We both turned. By now I knew that Erlich moved silently and seemed to just show up out of nowhere. I quickly ran through my various stored excuses to choose one and ended up with the truth. "Thanks, but I don't want to go out dressed like this." "But next week will be okay?" Erlich gave me a long look and I replayed the conversation to find what I had said about next week. Before I could speak again she started. "Mr. Stanley, or I guess Max, you can't hide. Anyway between the papers and Channel 9 news everybody in the Capital District knows who you are and what you look like. Remember I said that the press was doing you a favor. I can't force you but I will pay for lunch." I sat for a moment trying to find some way out other than abruptly saying "no". "Alright. Let me wash up. Uh, where are we going?" "The pizza place three doors up. If Tri-County is paying we are on a budget." I walked out awkwardly. The morning's high was gone and I was self- conscious waiting for people to point and laugh or worse. At least the sun had come out so we weren't trying to duck rain drops. When we came to the door of JJ's Pizza I was feeling sick to my stomach and the thought of cheese and tomato sauce was horrible. "Jane, hi and oh..." The man behind the counter stopped in the middle of his greeting and then started again. "Hi, take a booth. Sue will be right over." We sat down and I made sure to get the inside seat. Emma grabbed a menu making her usual comment about needing to watch her weight. Erlich just looked around. A young woman came over with paper mats and silverware and gave a gulping noise before asking if we were ready to order. I smiled, which made her blush and asked for two slices with mushrooms. People around the pizzeria were giving me glances or longer looks and then deliberately ignoring me. Emma and Erlich started discussing a mutual acquaintance and a man stopped as he passed. "Oh hi Emma, Jane... uh Max right?" "Yes." "Join us Al" said Erlich and she moved sideways on the bench. "Max this is Al. He's a local lawyer and does pro bono with us on discrimination issues. " Talk continued and as I ate my slices and drank a soda I gleaned more information about Tri-County. I knew what the not-for-profit did but this informal conversation between my three tablemates gave me a deeper insight. "Ms. Erlich..." "Everybody calls me Jane." "Oh, OK. Could I be a client of Tri-County?" For the first time I saw Erlich nonplussed. Her head jerked back a little and a very quizzical expression came over her. I continued. "I mean, I'm on parole. I'm earning very little and have no reserves. I probably qualify for food stamps but I've no idea how to deal with the system." Jane looked at me for a moment. "Let's talk about this at the office." We walked back and I tried to figure out what was so disturbing about my request. Al walked back with us and asked me a few questions of a general nature. Finally I sat down in front of Jane's desk and waited until she marshaled her thoughts. She waved in the general direction of the front office. "Max, out there are people, women mostly, who have been battered by life. Sometimes it's their own fault, often not. They are homeless, unemployed, abused, in debt, and we try to help them. You are not part of that group. You were a landlord and a porn merchant. Your downfall, to use a Victorian term, is your own making and you deserve it." She took a breath while I tried to control my anger. Then Jane continued. "A lot of the women out there have been abused, beaten, raped, scorned, made to feel worthless and you made your money promoting that." "I did not." "Well what would you call the websites you ran." "Actually I never really looked at them." "What?" "No, I managed the business and spent most of my time dealing with the rental properties. I'm not a computer type. I hire computer types." "And you think that excuses you. I assume you at least listened to the descriptions' of the sites during the trial?" I nodded. Some of them sounded pretty raw and in truth I occasionally peeked at some of the sites. I never spent that much time on them, except for one that tried to be artistically erotic. As for the others, well a picture of a woman having her tits nailed to a plank does not turn me on. "I did." Jane looked at me and the quizzical expression came on again. "Why didn't you try and spread the blame? There were others in the business." I knew the answer to that one. My lawyer certainly asked me enough times. "Good bosses don't spread blame. I hired them." I left the office shaken. Jane had offered to lend me some cash but I turned it down. Yes I could be a Tri-County client but with no rent expenses or dependents I probably wouldn't qualify for food stamps. And now I really knew where I stood with the staff. I was the poster child for the exploitive men who preyed on women. I just couldn't see myself that way. I was glad when the day was over. I had a pay stub in my purse and the money would be available tomorrow. The sun was shining. I was on a first name basis with Erlich. I would stop and buy ten dollars worth of gas and then maybe sit in the back yard. At the gas station I laughed with the teenage girl behind the counter and joked with a mechanic. With windows rolled down I pulled into my street and saw a car in the driveway and the front door ajar. I was trying to figure out what to do when I noticed the official plates. I stormed into the house and bumped into McCarty. She was looking through the small pile of newspapers on the coffee table. "What the hell are you doing?" "Hi Max, we're tossing your house." I looked into the bedroom where a young man was poking his hand under the mattress. Stomping back out I faced McCarthy with hands on my hips. "You're cute when you're mad Max. Hey remember the terms of parole? We can search you premises at any time." "Even when I'm not in? Anyway what are you looking for?" "Drugs, guns, porno, you know. Hey calm down. We figured you'd be back by now, knocked, waited and then walked in. I do have a key you know. All done Pete? Good wait for me outside. Thanks." McCarthy motioned for me to sit down. "Max you are in a different world. Most parolees have a couple of years in prison to get used to it. You never got used to it waiting trial. You don't have privacy any longer. We can't open your mail or tap your phone, but that's about the limits. I'm sorry if we startled you but get used to it. By the way you are looking a lot better than when I saw you last." She gave a wave and walked out. I just stood there. Someone had walked into my house and rummaged through my belongings and then blew it off by telling me I had no privacy. I walked back and forth trying to contain my fury and identify another emotion. Going into the bedroom I pulled the sheets off the bed and grabbed the clean set. Still in a fury I yanked them left and right until the bed was made and then I slumped down on the cane chair in the corner making it creak in protest. "Hell and fuck. Oh shit, piss and corruption." I stared at the wall. I felt violated. I felt... I felt... I forced myself to say the words out loud. "Damn it Max you feel like a woman who's been groped and then laughed at." As if to accent my thoughts there was a clap of thunder and the sky became darker and the rain came down. Chapter 7: Who and What Tuesday I sulked, a bad day brightened only a little by writing a check for cash at the bank and reloading my wallet. Wednesday I said very little and somehow I managed to grump my way through two more weeks. Emma gave up trying to joke with me and Mark, normally an invisible man, totally disappeared. Jane asked a few times how it was going and accepted my grimaces and shrugs as some form of communication. And then it was a Friday and people were reminding me that we had a three day weekend. It was Memorial Day and I wasn't going to drive the company Beemer to the Hamptons to party with my other 30- something friends. I hit the ATM on the way home and congratulated myself on spending less than I earned. Of course a $317 check from the fund helped a lot. I picked up some beer at the convenience store along with a bag of pretzels and headed home trying to pretend I was looking forward to three days off. I wasn't cheered up by seeing McCarthy's car in front of the house but at least this time she was waiting in the car. "Hi Max, boy do you ever look cheerful. I figured you'd be back soon so I waited." I let her into the house and she ran a check on the bracelet reader. "Should I look around?" I grunted and shook my head. "Tell you what Max. You are the easiest of my case load so I'll give you advice other than keep your nose clean. Get the hell of the house this weekend. Even with the midday check-in you can take a few hours. Go for a walk, see a movie. Hell you've been living in the same three outfits now for almost four weeks. Go shopping. No really. Go to KMarts. They've got cheap clothing and you can pick up something different. Just remember you're a Woman's Plus. The exact size will be on a label in that dress. Now I have to go to see if one of my bad girls actually made it to work. See ya." That night, with the assistance of a couple of beers I sat in the living room and forced myself to look back over the past few months. Jail was uncomfortable and frightening, but in retrospect not that bad. But when I walked out of jail and got into the state van to travel north I left Max Stanley behind. A third can finished I stopped drinking so tha