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Hero By Cassandra Morgan I knew better, dammit. I was smarter than this. From the time I first dragged a pair of panties up my legs, I have been scared to death of being caught, and the fear has made me sharp. I was never one of those transvestites who secretly wants to get caught by his mom or his wife or his co-workers. I always knew it would start a river of trouble flowing. So I knew better. Hell, I dressed before I went home, but not after. It was just for self-protection. You never waited till you got home; that was just stupid. You never drove dressed all the way from Cincinnati back to Indianapolis, where I lived. You didn't take chances. You didn't risk getting caught. But, dammit, I was pissed. And anger can make you foolish. Link had broken up with me. In bed. Naked. After sex. The Triple Crown of bad breakups. I thought we had it in us to go the distance. He just wanted to run back home to his old girlfriend. A genetically blessed one. But that wasn't what pissed me off. What pissed me off was that he played me for one last wild afternoon, kind of like a going out of business sale for his penis. That set me off, and that was the reason I was driving across the midwest like a bat out of hell. My dark wig was still on my head. My red dress was still on my body. My red heels were on my feet. Yes, I have a temper. But you would have, too, if your boyfriend was lying there naked, your fingers still on his cock, when he told you that he was going back to Brittney. I should have ripped the damn thing off. Instead, I rushed out of the hotel room, and I peeled out of the parking lot, and I pointed it toward Cincy. I didn't think about accidents. I didn't think about cops. I didn't think about the fact I was dressed like a girl. Again. You know the story. I'm Cinnamon Butler, and yes, I dress as a woman in my leisure time. My straight name in Cody Butler, a sophomore English teacher at Hayes High School in Cincinnati. It's a tricky lifestyle. But I only dress on the weekends, and then only at a hotel and then a gay bar in Indianapolis, which is a far more diverse city than you might imagine. A bunch of us usually gathered there at Rainbow's, which is where I had met Link. We had hit if off fairly well. The chemistry sizzled. You want to call it gay? Fine. I like men. I'm a woman, and I like men. Sue me. Look, let me say this about that night. I'm not the hero type. I'm little, and I'm timid, and I've never been much good in a fight. I have no warrior's blood, no lion's heart. I just did what anyone would do. You. Me. The guy next to you. That's the truth, no matter what you read. And so I ran. I raced through the countryside, the trees whipping past. There wasn't a lot of traffic on I-74 and eventually, my anger faded. Oh, I would still get pissed off when I thought about it, but it was a nice night for a driver, and I loved driving while dressed as a woman. You could kick off your heels, and hike up your skirt, and flash the truckers. You felt your panties rub together, and your wig blew in the wind. Driving was sexy. During the day, the road was a little more congested. Of course, I was usually dressed as a guy then. On a typical Friday, I left class about 3:30 and hit the highway. I had a suitcase with my women's clothing packed -you know the drill. I got the Ramada, and I checked in. I dressed silently. Shortly after six, Link would show up from his job as a cop. We would fool around - of course we would - and later, we would dress, get something to eat and go Rainbow's. This time, it had been a little kinkier than most. Link knocked on the door, and I opened it and put my finger to his lips. I shook my head, indicating silence. And he had taken me right there on the floor. It was raw and savage and desperate sex. It was terrific. His hands...Link had great hands, strong hands, wandering hands. He touched my face as he kissed me, which I have always found intimate. I kissed down his body. I undid his pants. I swallowed his penis whole. I don't want to be crude, but have you ever marveled at the penis. Soft one minute, hard the next. Calm, then spurting. Innocent, then probing. He guided my head into him, as I sucked him long and deep. He slowed me down, set the rhythm. I could have been like that all weekend, on my knees, my lingerie still on me, his dick in my mouth. Link used to joke that he always wanted my ass, but this time my mouth kept that from happening. All of this made it tougher later when he told me he was going back to Brittney. He wanted a white picket fence and a house in the suburbs. He said he loved me, but marrying a trans was going to be too hard for him. So I sped away. I stopped at a diner and drank coffee and cried for most of the night. A trucker tried to hit on me, but I just shook my head, and he left. It was getting near dawn when I approached Cincinnati. I was looking for a McDonald's or for a Truck Stop where I could slip into a toilet and change. I couldn't risk going home. Mrs. McGuillicutty, my neighbor, was always looking out of her window. I took the big bend just before the city limits. A small wisp of smoke rose above the trees. The highway narrowed there, and I slowed. I had kicked off my heels by now, and I was just driving in my pantyhose. And there it was. A red Lexus was turned over on the side of the road. It had flipped, and it was smoking. I didn't know a lot about cars, but I knew enough to check to see if anyone was inside. I got out of the car, padding along the rocks on the side of the highway. I went to the car, and I saw her. A brunette woman was lying unconscious. I didn't think. I just reacted. I would grow to wish that someone else had gotten there first. "Help mommy," a small voice said. I opened the back door slightly. It wouldn't open too wide. A small blonde girl scrambled out. I walked her to the shoulder of the road. "Wait here," I said. I went back. I had read not to move an accident victim, but I didn't see where I had any choice. I half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the car. I hit my forehead on the door, and it started to bleed -- the pain wasn't bad, though. I dragged her halfway to the road. Suddenly, there were smaller hands helping me pull. Her name was Gretchen, and she wasn't going to just watch. She was going to help save her mom. "Did you get the baby?" she asked. Baby? I went back and looked in the flipped car. Sure enough, there was a child's seat. I half twisted, half stretched. I reached the strap and pushed the button that released the buckle. I caught the infant girl as she spilled out of it. I cradled her head, and walked it over to her mother, who was moaning by the side of the road. "My baby," she whispered. "Dani." I was handing her the child when I heard the motor drive of the camera. I looked up, and this photographer was shooting away. He had driven up after me. Damn him, he could have helped! But it's a point-and-shoot world, where everyone is on Twitter or Facebook and everyone thinks they're a photographer. He knew a photo op when he saw it. The picture came out great. You probably saw it. There was just enough blood to humanize me, dripping down my forward. The baby's face was in full view as I knelt. The prostrate mother's arms were reaching up. The wrecked car was in the background, and the fire had just begun. It was probably going to win some awards. Me? I read the headline again. "It Takes Balls..." it said above the photo. And, under it, it said "...To Be a Hero." I had been outed. Evidently, it started when the cops asked me for identification, which was, of course, male. The freelance photographer got that from the police report. He found out I was a schoolteacher. Eventually, he would find out about Link and Rainbow's and my cross- dressing lifestyle. What's the old saying? "No good deed goes unpunished." It was that way with me. I got notoriety I didn't need, news coverage I didn't want. I was the guy in the dress who saved the family. There was no escaping it. In the news cycle, I was a hot story. *** That whole weekend I stayed in the headlines. The Post tracked down Link, who gave them an exclusive that said, pretty much, that I made sex like a wild bear. They found a former teacher, Abbie Reynolds, who said she always knew I was a pervert. They found Suzanne, another cross-dresser, who said I was man-hungry. They found my parents' home in Dayton, and they quoted an anonymous neighbor who said my father was ashamed of me. I had saved a family of three, and he was ashamed. I was fired by Sunday. Ron Tannenbaum, the principal, called me on the phone. According to him, my work had been unsatisfactory for a year! It wasn't about the cross-dressing, of course. It was that the kids weren't learning. It was bullshit. Damn it, I was a good teacher. I had gotten great job reviews for all of my four years at the school. Cincinnati is a big little town, and the gossip there churns in a hurry. Every parent at Hayes knew about me by Sunday night. Cars started driving slowly by my apartment. Oh, everyone understood, because a lot of people are gay, and they had nothing against gays, and they all had a friend who was gay. But not at their school, because think of the children, and wasn't it a shame, and I really wasn't that popular with the kids anyway. So, I was fired. Oh, the local chapter of the LBGT tried to lend its muscle, and the national chapter huffed and puffed. The support was nice, I suppose, but I was unemployed. I felt dirty, perverse. How do you explain what it's like to be a transvestite to the vanillas? The thrill of panties, and feel of the hem of a skirt bouncing against your thighs, the excitement of believing you pass. It isn't something you can switch on or off. It's an overwhelming compulsion to feel right about one's self. You know the science fiction movies where the aliens have the humans in a trance? It's like that. You cannot fight it for long. I started when I was 12, fumbling in the dark with my sister's clothing, sneaking panties into my room. I bought my first lipstick the next year. I was an oaf, but I felt pretty. I tried sex with a boy at 15, but I never cared for it unless I was dressed. It was part of the feel of being feminine. Now I had been found out. It seemed to bother everyone but Gretchen, who ran up to me one day in the courthouse and threw her arms around me. I waved to her mother as the attorneys rushed me out. For all the loud talk, we seemed from the start to be headed toward a settlement with the school board. Oh, Chuck Martin, the corporate lawyer, tried to help. It was his wife, Annie, who had been driving the Lexus that day. And they showed up every day in the courtroom. Chuck didn't practice criminal law, but he was there every day. He even testified one day that the school system should be giving me a medal for saving lives, not chasing me away. But any real case I had was lost early. Andy Reed, a student, told the school's attorney's that I had touched him. I swear, it wasn't true, and I think everyone knew it wasn't true. But when a judge hears that students are indeed in danger, a transsexual has no case. Everyone was sorry, of course. But that was the law. That was it. I was unemployed. Zack Billings came to my rescue. He was a gay restaurant owner of a breakfast diner in town, and he had an idea. Since the whole damn town was talking about me, and there were sure to be curiosity seekers, why I didn't I come to work for him. It would be an opportunity to work as a woman. There would be tips. And I did have to eat. So I went to work, dealing dishes, filling glasses, hearing the chatter in the background about whether a table could tell or not, or whether my waitress' dress was too short, or if my breasts were real (they weren't). There was one other waitress there. Lola Matthews. On the counter, they had a jar: "For Lola's Tips." Next to it, they put another one: "For Cinnamon's Tits." It was nice working for Zack. He was completely devoted to Paul, his husband. We bantered a little, but he left me alone. Oh, a plain white waitress dress wasn't what I had in mind when I started dressing for the job. "Why don't we make it overalls?" I asked him one day. "You're lucky I don't make you wear a maid's dress," he laughed. "You'd be cute as a French maid." I wrinkled my nose. "Not for me," I said. "I like being on top." "You could be on top of me," said Henry, an older customer. I didn't even think Henry thought about me as a sexual being. I was just a coffee jockey. "Oh, you old lech," I said. "Your wife would turn you over her knee." "If I'm lucky," Henry said. The curiosity didn't last. Before long, I was just your average waitress, trying to make enough in tips to pay the rent. I figured I would be there for 20 years, getting butt fucked every now and then, taking lovers when I could get them. But I had a job. The thing is, I had not gotten one response to the teaching application I had sent out. They thought I was a pedophile, too. I didn't date, and yes, I had some offers. Curiosity, perhaps? I just worked and slept and watched TV. I got to wear panties, but except for that, it was about as bland an existence as you could imagine. Until one Wednesday at noon. When he came into the diner. I never saw him come in. He was just there, in the booth, a red dress on a hanger beside him. He was in a gray suit, a soft blue shirt, a darker blue tie. He had straight teeth and wavy hair. Chuck Martin. That lawyer husband of the family I'd rescued. "Hello, Mr. Martin," I said. "Coffee?" He nodded and smiled. His teeth sparkled like he had glitter on them. "You're a hard person to find," he said. "I've been looking for you for months. You moved." "Had to. They wanted rent money." "I never thanked you for Annie and the girls," he said. "That was a wonderful thing you did. I'm sorry it ended up hurting you." I shrugged. "Anyone would have done that," I said. "No one else did." "I was lucky," I said. "Lucky? I wouldn't call you lucky." I smiled. "It was bound to happen some day, I guess. I wasn't going to stop dressing. People weren't going to stop being small-minded." "Cinnamon...can you sit down?" I looked toward Zack. He nodded. I sat down, smoothing my skirt as I did so. "I'd never know," Chuck said. I nodded. "Look, this was Annie's idea. That night had to ruin your clothes. We ... she bought you a new dress. I hope it will fit. Annie didn't really get to spend a lot of time with you that night." "You don't have to do this," I said firmly. "I know I don't have to. But Annie wanted to say thanks. There are a million ways we could say thanks." "Well, it's nice of you," I said. "Now, there is this we should talk about," he said. "I run a law firm, as you might know. I need a receptionist. It isn't up to your teaching skills, but it calls for a smart person, and it's better than slinging eggs." "I like slinging eggs," I said. "Cinnamon, please let me do this. It would be a favor to me." "Why do you want a freak working for you?" "You aren't a freak, Cinnamon. You're a lovely woman who has been slapped down by a system that should have been honoring you. I think you can help. I think you'll be good at writing briefs, and I think you'll be a great researcher. It isn't all about answering the phone." "Mr. Martin, you know as well as I do why you're offering me this job. Bless you for it. But you can thank me by loving Annie and the girls. Dani and what's her name? Gretchen? Now, I need to get back to work. It's lunch time. Shoot, we might get a customer someday." I walked away from him. Damn. I should have taken the job. I knew I should have taken the job. But I meant it about just being in the right place to help. I shouldn't be rewarded for that. I'll say this, though. That Annie is a lucky girl. Chuck is a handsome guy. The kind of guy who can give a girl a hard-on, you know? * * * Two days later, I turned the corner past the counter, and there she was. Pretty. Perky. A wide smile. Annie Martin. "You two are good at sneaking up on someone," I said. "Hello, Cinnamon," she said. "What can I get you?" I said, keeping it formal. "Just some company. I came after the lunchtime rush, unlike that oaf of a husband of mine." "What rush?" I said. "Some guy wanted crackers for soup he bought somewhere else." "Really?" "No. I'm just goofing, Annie. How are you? How is Gretchen?" "I'm healed, and Gretchen has taken over the world. I have two healthy daughters and a guardian angel. Thank you for my life, Cinnamon." "No need," I said. "Someone else would have happened by." "Yeah. When we were charcoal brickettes." "I'm glad you're all okay." "Did the dress fit?" "You know it did. It's a gorgeous dress. Far more expensive than anything I own." She shrugged. "I'm here to talk to you about the job at Chuck's." "Annie, he doesn't have to. That's the point. You can't go around expecting payment for doing what anyone should do. I'm so glad Dani is okay. And Gretchen. Believe me, that's payment enough. When I think about you reading to Gretchen, I feel good inside. We aren't all perverts." "Of course you aren't. Do you know there are firefighters who have changed genders? Ex-Navy Seals. Olympic champions. You're a girl, Cinnamon. I have no doubt of that. You shouldn't have any, either. And there are a lot of guys who work at Chuck's." I stared out the window. "You expect me to give up all this glamour?" She laughed. "Gretchen expects it." That brought a grin. "Well, the little Mistress has to have her way, doesn't she? I can't disappoint her. So, tell me about all these guys who work for Chuck." * * * And so I became a worker in a legal office. Not quite a secretary. Not quite a research assistant. Just a general office fix-it girl who did everything from making the morning coffee to looking up legal precedents. It was good work, rewarding work. And not just because I got to dress - really dress - like a woman. I felt valued. It was clear from the first day this wasn't a pity job. Chuck worked me to death. But I was making more money that I had as a teacher, and the health insurance plan was good. I had breast surgery, and then augmented it with hormones. I built my wardrobe. I grew my hair out. I liked Chuck. No, not like that. He was Annie's man. But he was smart, and kind, and compassionate. He was the kind of man who touched you on the arm when he talked to you, who looked you in the eye and measured what you were saying. It didn't matter that you were transgender. It just mattered that you had an opinion and the facts to back it up. Maybe it was because Chuck was so nice to me, but I felt I fit like a glove in the office. And yes, Annie was right, there were a lot of possibilities there at the office. Junior associates, office staff, clients. I spent a little time with a guy named Gillis Bryant. You know, casual sex. It wasn't earth-moving, but it was nice. We all like to get kissed. What is the good of wearing a dress if you don't have a boyfriend to sneak his hand underneath it? I never knew if Gillis was attracted to me because I was trans, or even aware of the fact I was trans. I might have talked to him about it, but my mouth was full. Ha. One day, I was in the women's restroom, putting on lipstick, when a co- worker named Deborah came up beside me. She looked at me, then again. Finally, she said in a low voice. "I know about you." "Excuse me?" "You're a man," she said. "I was," I said quietly. "Not any more." "You still got a dick?" I looked at her. I didn't need trouble. I didn't need to run to Chuck. "Not much of one," I said. "You want to fuck me?" she said. "Not remotely," I said. "I could put a dress on my cat, but that doesn't make it a girl," she said. "Excuse me. I need to go." "Fucking hero fag," she said. "Please don't call me names," I said evenly. Then she did the damnedest thing. She grabbed both sides of my head, and she kissed me. I could feel her breasts crush into mine. Her right hand dropped to my ass. I pulled away. I rushed from the room without a word. Look, I had nothing against lesbians, but there was so much venom here. I'd have to watch out for her. A woman who wanted to fuck me and fuck me up at the same time was no friend. I felt ... well, a little as if I'd escaped a rape. An act of love expressing hatred. I didn't have to worry long. Deborah quit suddenly. I never knew if Chuck had found out. Later, Annie explained to me that many women encounter men with similar ambivalent attitudes. "They're the true perverts," she added. I couldn't disagree. I began to eat at Chuck's home once a week. I'd read to the girls, watch movies with them, tell lame jokes. I was Aunt Cin. Annie and I became best friends. I never felt judged. I never felt small. I was an actualized woman for the first time in my life. I had a home. It was a good life, a life I could have lived forever. I was a young career woman, and life was good. It was about to get better. * * * It was early in the week, and I had finally found the Griffith file that I had spent all morning looking for, and I had a phone call to make, so I was in a bit of a hurry as I rushed through the office. Then Chuck's secretary, Roseanne, was calling my name. I looked up, and she beckoned me toward her. "Mr. Martin needs you," she said. "Well, of course he does. He's just too much in love with his wife to realize it." She looked at me oddly, blinking behind her thick glasses like an owl. Legal secretaries are not big into humor. "A joke, Roseanne," I said. "Just a joke. Everyone knows I love Annie." She turned without comment and went into the big office in the corner. I followed her. "Go right in," she said. I walked into Chuck's office, large and elegant. There were leather couches and a small boardroom table. His desk was to one side, underneath a massive photo of a sunset. Two men, a distinguished man in his 40s, and a younger man in his late 20s, stood and nodded as I entered. "Cinnamon," Chuck said. "So good of you to join us." "Mr. Martin," I said, keeping it formal because of company. "Oh, phoo," he said. "These guys know you call me Chuck. As long as you don't make it "Chuckles" I'm all right." I laughed softly and turned to the two men. "Cinnamon, please meet Philip Reinhart, the CEO of Reinhart Enterprises in California, and his attorney, Jess Downy. We represent them nationally, although we almost never get together. Phil is a very old friend. He was there when Annie and I met. "Now, shall we all sit? Coffee?" No one had ever gotten me coffee, not to my recollection. I declined. Phil did the same. Jess took a cup black. Chuck took his with cream. We made small talk. About the Reds. About Ohio State. About the coming elections. Then Jeff asked me if I supported Caitlyn Jenner, and I knew he knew about my sexuality. It was too quick a reference to mention to a strange straight woman. Finally, Phil cleared his throat, the universal sign of getting down to business. "Cinnamon, I will not beat around the bush. I am aware of your story, and I have to say, I'm impressed. You risked a lot to save Annie. It was quite a remarkable display of courage." "Mr. Reinhart..." "Phil." "Phil, it was timing and providence," I said. "That's all. Chuck knows how I feel about this. I am simply grateful Annie and the girls are fine." Phil smiled. "Regardless, young lady. I remain impressed. You are quite charming, and very pretty, and most gracious." "Thank you, sir." He leaned forward. He looked into my eyes. He nodded, as if confirming something to himself. "I want you. I mean, I want to hire you. I know how you got railroaded out of the local schools. I wish I had been able to set my lawyers onto it. Right, Jess? Well, we run a school in San Francisco. Reinhart's Academy. Everyone calls it Rainbow High. Ever hear of it?" "No, sir. I'm sorry." "No need. It's an alternative high school. Gay kids. Lesbian kids. Transgender kids. Bisexual kids. If a kid knows he doesn't fit into a public school, he applies to ours. And it's beautiful." "It sounds great," I said. "It is. My ... daughter Cheyenne would have loved it. She was 17 when she died, Cinnamon. She was transgender. And I was an awkward, stupid father who never quite got it. I mean, I loved her. I really did. But when she started wearing dresses to the kitchen table, well, I would lose my temper. I'm not proud of it now. But she and her ... boyfriend were fooling around with drugs one day, and they hit a truck head on on the interstate. I was lost. So after wallowing in self-pity for about two years, I founded this school." "I see." "And now, Cinnamon. Now I need someone to run it for me." Run it? I had felt that he was leading up to offering me a job as a teacher. But head mistress? Ha. I was being offered the chance to be someone's mistress. Wasn't that a hoot? Meek little Cinnamon! "Sir," I said. "I have a job. I love my job." I looked to Chuck. "And everyone here loves you, Cin," Chuck said. "You know we do. Annie loves you, and the girls will miss you terribly. You're family. But this is important, Cinnamon. I think it's the job you were born to have. You'll be a transexual teacher guiding transexual students, among others. I hated to leave. I loved my life. But I hated to pass up this opportunity, too. We hashed out the salary in about 10 minutes. I was promised that my ideas would be listened to. And just like that, this girl had a new job. "My parents were happy for me. And happy for themselves that I would no longer be an embarrassment to them, still living in the same town they lived in. * * * A high school hallway is like an interstate, only with kids instead of cars. This guy is out of control. That girl is going too fast. That guy is on the wrong side. I smiled at the bustle as I walked down the hallway of this school. My school. To the kids, I was just an adult woman who looked slightly out of place. Paper airplanes flew through the halls, and kids shouted and students gathered in their different cliques. The pretty kids hung with other. The Goth kids with each other. The kids who, uh, looked like they were discussing Star Trek ? again ? hung together. At first glance, it looked like any high school in any town in any city in the United States. Except, um, these kids were gay. Or transgendered. Or bisexual. Or whatever. This was Rainbow High, first school day of the year, and it was beautiful. I had been like a schoolgirl on her way to the prom the night before. Was I going to wear a dress? A suit? A skirt? Was I going to be sexy? Showy? Stylish? I finally picked a conservative blue skirt and a white blouse. A string of pearls. I was everyone's mom, the head mistress of Rainbow High. I laughed. When a Mistress makes you clean the blackboard at Rainbow High, does that make everyone who cleans the damn blackboard a Sissy? Even if they already are? I laughed to myself. I walked through the halls, listened to the chatter. They were still talking about a hot new action hero, only it was the boys who talked in lustful tones. When a group was talking about Caitlyn Jenner, they knew her viewpoint, because they were transexuals, too. You know what I found out? That sort of stuff is just chatter. The kids had the same problems that straight kids had. They had crushes. They tried to fit in. They were into drugs. They hated this TV show or that movie and this concert. They were late to class because they overslept. They didn't give a shit about class elections. And on and on. I was in love. This was every educational experience I had ever wanted. I guest lectured in English class from time to time. I counseled students. And I lived. It was as if my entire life had been preparing me for this. I rented a small apartment near the school. I shopped for flowers. I found a hair salon. Oh, the kids knew about me. Of course they did. Someone had found the newspaper article with the photo, which impressed the kids. I had never been around anyone who was impressed before. This being Rainbow High, there were a lot of personal questions, because a trans kid thinks she should know about other trans kids, and a gay kid thinks he should know about other gay kids. That was the big difference. Kids at Rainbow High were a lot further along sexually than at a straight high school. When you identify yourself by what sort of sex you like, you are bound to be. Soon, I knew each of these kids, and their problems, and their virtues. I knew the smart kids, the clever ones, the athletes, the sexpots. In my first six months, I talked a trans girl out of committing suicide. I counseled a young girl whose girlfriend was cheating on her with a third girl. I gave advice to an aspiring Mistress who wanted to tame the science teacher (that one, I discouraged). I talked about safe sex and safe words and safety pins (for diapers). I advised a young man who had found out his boyfriend has Aids. If you have heard of a diversion (we didn't use the word perversion), it was here at Rainbow High. It was a little city, one where sex was not a bad word, where gender is just a starting point. That first semester, teachers caught two guys having sex in the men's room, and a girl with handcuffs in her purse, and a group of science students who were doing a thesis on pet play. Cats were best, they had determined. Yeah, I fit in. I was a gay transexual, and it didn't bother me or anyone at the school a bit. Our SAT scores were the second-highest in the county. We led everyone in full scholarships given to public high schools. This is who I was, and it was who I always would be. Damn it, I liked lipstick. I liked panties. I liked dresses. I liked men. At least, I did in concept. Soon, that would change, too. *** If there was a downside to my job, it was all the evenings spent at fund- raisers. You can imagine. Rainbow High was fully public, but given our additional costs for transport and fees, we spent a fortune. So I often accompanied Phil to such gatherings. He would schmooz the straights in the crowd, and I would address the ? alternative lifestylers. We made a pretty good team. We raised a lot of money, more than projections for the year. And we got to know each other. Phil's limo would pick me up ? a neighbor of mine later told me she thought I was hooker ? at my apartment. I had a clothing allowance by now, so I usually looked good. Well, you know how people talk. Phil and I would arrive together, and we would leave together, and the whispers began that we were an item. Oh, it wasn't vicious. He was single, and I was single, and most of the crowds we visited were pro-gay. But everyone thought he was tapping his new head mistress. I heard one night that I was the other kind of mistress, the kind in leather. I laughed for two straight hours about that one. Phil did, too. We joked about getting him a maid's outfit and letting him go to work. It was only a joke. A shame, because I could have used a maid. We talked. We talked about an awkward teenage boy born in the wrong sex, sneaking into his sisters room, wearing panties under his jeans. We talked about his daughter, pushing the limits of her parents' acceptability. We talked about his ex-wife. We talked about Annie and Gretchen and little Dani. We talked about the school and the kids and our plans for the future." We became friends. And something more. Phil took to walking me to the door when the limo brought me home, then lingering, then coming in for a nightcap. Then one night, he didn't leave. We didn't plan it. I didn't, anyway. But he was kissing me, and he was pressing his body against mine. He was 16 years older than I was, but it felt right. We were beyond age, and beyond gender. He undressed me slowly. This wasn't the raw nights with Link, or the sneaky nights with others. This was real. He kissed my right breast. He ran his fingers across my stomach. And then he leaned down, sweetly, and kissed my penis. I jerked, because no one had ever done that before. Guys ignored it. Link had touched in once. I'll be honest, I didn't like it being touched. But this was different. This was loving and gentle and heartfelt. He took it into his lips, sucked gently. Then he kissed up my stomach and kissed my mouth. ?I want this to work, Cin," he whispered. ?I want this to be good." ?It will be," I said. ?If you will shut up and fuck me." We giggled. We were like schoolkids, stroking and rubbing and touching. I took his cock into my mouth. ?You do it like this," I said. And I gave him a blow job that would make the entire State of California proud. I left the apartment the next day and moved into his house. We were together. He bought me a bracelet to show off to make it official. We went to plays and movies and museums. And we made love. Sweet love. Passionate love. Animal love. There was no part of our bodies that were off limits. The wedding was in June, so Gretchen could be out of school. Chris and Annie were there on the mountainside. Phil looked perfect. He seemed happy. He was my hero. He had validated his daughter's life with his school. He had saved mine. Heroism is a funny thing. It can be deeds, those we celebrate and those we don't. And it can be about the way someone lives a life. I lucked into it, a combination of rage and happenstance. But Phil had made sure a lot of kids were going to have a chance to grow up accepted and accepting. That's hero enough for me. (c) 2015 Cassandra Morgan