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The Way Back Home If Buddha had a conversation with Jesus, they would agree that my wife is perfect. If Gandhi were to talk to Abraham Lincoln, they would come to the same conclusion. Even evil men, Charlie Manson and Ted Bundy, for instance, would attest to Ginny's virtue. She sings in the church choir. She is a Big Sister. She gives to the homeless. She volunteers at CASA. She marches to raise money to fight breast cancer. She donates to Friends of Strays. She teaches disadvantaged kids at an elementary school. Ginny just has one little peculiarity. She likes guys in dresses. I can't explain it any better that that. Ginny has a ... curiosity ... for all things cross-dressing. She loves men in hose. Men in lipstick. Men in heels. She buys music CDs from Hannah Jane Grace. She has seen movies from Boy Meets Girl to The Danish Girl to Wong Fu to A Fantastic Woman to Carla to the Crying Game to Paris is Burning to Transamerica. Hell, I can't tell you how many nights I'd get home from work, and Ginny would drag me to the movies to see, well, drag. She recorded RuPaul every week. And Sens8 and reruns of I Am Cait. If it wouldn't interfere with her sainthood, I'd suspect she was watching a little porn. I've asked, but it's hard to say where this compulsion began for Ginny. She didn't have a family member or a childhood friend who was trans. She wasn't around a lot of trans people. But from the first time she went to see thee Rocky Horror Show, she's loved men wearing lingerie. Some women like women. Some women like old guys. Some women like firefighters. Ginny likes girly boys. What she was doing with me is anyone's guess. Look, I don't have a problem with her hobby. I really don't. Personally, I thought Michele Hendley in Boy Meets Girl was gorgeous. Still, I do not go home and put on a dress, much to Ginny's chagrin. If I see her watching one of her shows, I might come in and sit down. And I might get as far away from the set as possible. It depends on my mood. In our marriage, it's something that we can work around. We love each other, and because of it, we love all the things about each other. But I don't dress. Not that Ginny hasn't tried. Halloweens get loud at our house. She's wanted me to rent a wedding dress or a prom dress, but I don't listen. Our friends once had a reverse party (the men dress as women and vice- versa), and I made up an excuse not to go. For my birthday, Ginny bought me a maid's dress. I refused to wear it, even around the house, which hurt her feelings. I know. I'm an asshole. Whatever. The dress is still in Ginny's closet. In case you're wondering, no, Ginny doesn't look transgender herself. She's 5-4, with blonde hair and great legs. She has a chip on one of her front teeth, and freckles. She's cute. Me? I'm Gary. I'm 5-7 and a little skinny. I have brown hair. And I guess I say "No" a lot. So it was that I came home from work at Best Buy (I'm on the Geek Squad, repairing computers) and Ginny was watching a rerun of Orange is the New Black. Now, I've told you. I'm not into drag. But LaVerne Cox is amazing. Even us straight vanilla guys know that. I said "Hi!" to Ginny and went into the kitchen. I cut some brie and laid out some crackers. I sliced some summer sausage and poured a nice Merlot. I thought about celery, but we would be eating dinner soon. Then I brought it all to Ginny. "Thanks, sweetheart," she said, taking the plate from my hands and setting it on the table. She patted the couch beside her. I sat. "So which ones are the evil aliens who want to snatch their brains?" I asked. She hit me on the arm. "Silly," she said. "You've seen Orange before. You've got the hots for LaVerne. And maybe Natasha Lyonne, even though she isn't trans." I laughed. "Natasha is great," I said, "But I'm faithful to Laverne." Ginny shook her head. "Now, you make jokes," she said. "But you don't appreciate the girls the way I do, do you?" "Baby," I said. "No one appreciates the girls the way you do." "Well, if you'd just put on panties, I wouldn't have to get my thrills from the television set," she said. I exhaled. "Ginny, we've talked about this..." "I know," she said. "You prefer those ugly men's clothes. But if you'd just try it once..." I looked at her. "And then what? You'd have a husband who prances around in skirts? You'd have a husband who steals your bras? You don't want that! Down deep, you don't want that." "Don't tell me what I want," she said. "Yes, Mistress," I said, joking. "That's more like it, maid. Now, can you get me some veggies?" * * "The colors," I was saying. "I remember the colors. Pinks and lavenders and yellows. I remember the way they felt, the way a dress would hug your mid-section. The way hose made your legs feel. The way heels made them look." Dr. Baxter looked over her pad at me. "Yes, Gary. Women's clothes are nice. I admit that. But what made you start wearing them?" I blinked at the images rolling around him my head. I looked at Susan Baxter, my psychologist. I shrugged. "I can't remember not wearing them. I remember my mother catching me in a skirt when I was three or four. It was red and white. I remember that. I remember getting caught in my sister's dress when I was about 10. When my sister went to college, I remember her clothes showing up in my closet. Then I remember other women's clothing, stuff that wasn't hers. I had no idea where it came from. Now, I realize it had to be my mother's doing." "And did you feel you were doing something wicked?" Dr. Baxter said. "Not at first," I said. "I was just playing. I don't know how many boys try on their sister's clothes and it doesn't mean anything. But with me, it seemed to touch my soul. That's before I realized it was wrong." Dr. Baxter pursed her lips. "Now, Gary. Tell me. What's so wrong?" "I'm sorry?" "On a grand scale, I mean. What's so inherently evil about putting on a garment that's cut is the shape of a dress instead of a pair of pants?" I thought about it. "Society," I said. "I don't want to be judged as ... one of them." "Them?" "You know. Trannies. Queers. Perverts." "Oh, Gary, those are some harsh words," Dr. Baxter said. "But let me ask you. If you woke up tomorrow, and all the guys were wearing skirts, would the world blow up? Would our civilization crumble?" "I guess not," I said. "But to me, it felt wrong. That's why I stopped." "But did you stop mentally, Gary? I mean, aren't you still toying with the idea?" I sighed. "Yeah, some," I said. "My wife is into cross-dressing in the movies and the TV shows. She thinks those women are more feminine, softer, prettier, than biological women. And she'd like me to get into it with her." "Wouldn't that must be marital role-play?" Dr. Baxter said. "What's the harm?" "Doc, I don't know if I could stop it if I started again. It'd be like an alcoholic taking a drink, you know? I know I have to toe the line. Ginny thinks I can be an asshole when I turn her down, but I don't mean to be. I just don't want to live my life in dresses." "Really? The subject keeps coming up in our sessions." "I know," I said. She paused. "Tell me about Ginny," she said. "Ginny's great," I said. "Really. She's the best person I know." "And still, she wouldn't object if you wore a dress?" "That's why I can't, doc," I said. "I can't risk anything affecting us. She'd think it was a hoot for a time, but she'd get tired of it. Women do." Dr. Baxter blew out air, as if she were smoking. "Gary, why do you think you married Ginny?" "I loved her. Simple as that. She was funny and smart and pretty and sexy." "Let me ask you this, Gary," she said. "Do you think humans are sensitive to each other's needs?" "Um, I suppose." "Well, maybe you fell in love with Ginny because you sensed she'd be sensitive to your preferences," Dr. Baxter said. "And maybe she fell in love with you because she sensed you needed a guide into femininity. Both of you, subconsciously, were there for each other's needs." I shook my head. "That's a little far-fetched," I said. "Do you believe in past-lives therapy?" Dr. Baxter asked. "Maybe you were sisters on the plantation, working the fields. Maybe you were lesbians on the Isle of Sappho. Maybe you were prostitutes in Rome? Maybe this isn't something that might happen in the future; maybe this has already happened the past." My mouth went dry at the thought. * * I'd been seeing a counselor for four months now. Those movies, the TV shows, were stirring old memories, old desires. I didn't say no to Ginny because I didn't want to play her dress-up games. I said no because I was afraid I'd want to do it all the time. Because down deep, I knew what kind of "man" I was. Was this a particular torment from hell? Do be in a marriage with an open-minded wife, but be unable to take advantage of it? I wondered about the cause of these desires. If I lived in another country, women's clothing would be completely different. Would I still want to wear them? Do Middle-Eastern transgenders wear feminine robes? Did the old Native Americans cut their animal skins into dresses instead of leggings? Did any of the Temptations want to be one of the Supremes? So was I a girl? A sissy? Was I something in between? I was late getting home, but Ginny didn't say anything. I fixed us drinks, and I retreated to the couch. Butterfly was on. It wasn't one of my favorites. "Sweetie, we've been invited to dinner's at Jace and Naomi's tonight. But you seem tense. Do you want to go?" I shrugged. "I'd like to go," she said. "Why don't you put on something more comfortable? Maybe your khakis. Maybe jeans. Maybe my red dress." I looked at her. She laughed. "Just trying to lighten the mood," she said. "Please don't," I said. I went into the kitchen. I made some spicy queso dip and spread unsalted Doritos around the lip of the plate. Ginny leaned over me. "I wish you had time to make rumaki, she said. "What time is it now?" I asked. "5:45. We have to be there at 7.00." "I think I have time," I said. "Do we have the ingredients?" "We do," Ginny said. "I was hoping my maid would make it." It was just after 7 when we showed up at the Washington's. Late, but not enough to feel bad about it. Ginny was wearing a white dress with yellow flowers on it. I had on my khakis and a blue shirt. When they met us at the door, Naomi was wearing a black dress. Jace was wearing a pink one. Oh, my God. Ginny grinned and embraced them both, Jace first. "You're adorable," she said. "Isn't she adorable?" Ginny was talking to me, but I just stood in the doorway with my mouth open, holding rumaki in one had and queso dip in the other. I looked at Ginny. "You set me up," I said. She laughed. "I did not. I knew Jace was ready to come out. But Naomi knows I like alternate lifestyles, so she invited us." "Don't be mad, precious," Naomi was saying. "Jaycee has been my sissy for a month now. We just thought this would be a good time to announce it to the world." I looked at her in her pink dress. I had known Jason -- Jace -- since college. He liked football and scuba diving and hang-gliding. I had no idea he wanted to be a sissy. Do you ever know, really? "Jace," I said. "Are you being forced to do this?" He -- she -- smiled. "No, Gary," she said. "We were just playing around one day, and I put on one of her skirts, and we both liked it. It grew into this. Gary, I like it." I didn't say anything. But I wondered if this would be my future if I were to give in to Ginny. I looked at Jaycee. She was in heels, and her hair had been styled, and she was wearing makeup. There was a definite bump where her breasts should be. She was wearing earrings and a woman's watch. If this was a dirty movie, we would have all ended up in bed together. But it was life, and we merely had dinner and conversation. Of course, most of the talk was about Jaycee, and her transition. He was what is called a "sissy," which meant he would do the cooking and the cleaning. He would be a Ken doll in a Barbie doll's dress. "Like you!" Ginny said. Everyone laughed. "So is there a sissy inside of Gary?" Naomi asked. "Well, if so, it's deep inside of her," Ginny said. "Remember that maid's dress I bought. Never has come off of the hanger. Some sissies have tight assholes; Gary is a tight asshole." "Maybe you need some lessons, Gary," Naomi said. "You and Jaycee could play sissies together." I ignored them. They were having their fun, and they knew better. Still, I couldn't help but look at Jaycee. "How does it feel, Jaycee?" I asked. "It feels ... electric," Jaycee said. "Every inch of my skin is alive. I'm aware of my panties, of my bra, of my hose. My lipstick, my earrings, my heels. I never felt like this in guy's clothes, Gary." I looked. My friend seemed happy. "How is your relationship with Naomi?" I asked. "Never better," Jaycee said. "She's in charge now. That's good. The stress was killing me." "But you surrendered your manhood.." I said. "What was there to surrender?" Jaycee said. "Arguing over a parking space? Getting pissed off when you get caught up in traffic. Getting upset over a line call in tennis? Arguing about Trump? I can do without that shit, Gary. I just have to pick out what color panties I'm going to wear. What are we going to have for dinner? It's a better way to live." I looked at Ginny. She shrugged. "Jaycee seems happy," she said. "It really is delicious," Jaycee said. "Wait until you shop for your first bra by yourself." I sputtered. "That's not going to happen, Jace," I said. Was it? * * * "Doc, I'll tell you. I was shocked. My golf partner was in a dress. A pink dress. He was wearing lipstick and mincing around the kitchen like he was leading the Pride Parade." Dr. Baxter sat back. "Do you think she's wrong for dressing like that?" "I don't know," I said. "She's going to eat some crap at her job. She might get beat up in a bar." "And still, it was important for her that you saw her in a dress," Dr. Baxter said. "What does that tell you about the way she feels about her clothes? And about you?" "Hey, there's nothing between us..." I said. "Maybe not," Dr. Baxter said. "But your friends know how accepting Ginny is. And they wanted you there, too. Do you think they sensed a kindred soul?" "I'm just their neighbor," I said. "Maybe,' Dr. Baxter said. Dr. Baxter looked at her notebook. "Gary, how did it make you feel? I mean, when you realized your friend was dressed as a woman?" "I don't know," I said. "Mixed feelings, maybe. Part of me felt a little angry. Part of me was, well, maybe a little jealous." "Really? Tell me about the rage." "Well, I said anger. I was angry he -- she -- never told me what he was going through. I'm her friend. I kind of felt like my entire gender had been abandoned. I felt a primitive need to call her names." She nodded. "And the jealousy?" I shrugged. "I miss it, Doc. I know people will say I'm gay, but I miss the way the clothes feel on me. When I saw her, a part of me wish it was me." "I never said you were gay. If you are, well, fine. If you're not, it's still not what we're talking about. We're talking about your femininity. I think you may be in denial, Gary." I stared at the wall. I didn't say anything. How did you deal with the feelings of anger and jealousy? "I cried," I admitted. "I punched the wall. I went nuts. I am nuts." "Tell me, Gary," she said, trying another approach. "Back in the day, was there a particular item of your sisters clothing you liked to put on?" I closed my eyes. I remembered a long line bra. I remembered a full slip. I remembered an ivory prom dress. But then I remembered the item that I loved the best. "Yeah," I said. "Sharon had a blue dress. A simple shift kind of dress. But it hugged my sides so well I thought I had curves. Of all the clothes I wore, that was the special one." Dr. Baxter smiled. "I had a blue dress, too," she said. "It was party dress. A princess dress. Tonight, I want you to think of wearing that dress and going to your birthday party." I closed my eyes. I fought my urges. It was hard. Me, too. "You know, Gary. It would help if I could talk to Ginny." "No. No," I said. "She'll know. She can't know." "Gary, do you trust me?" Dr. Baxter said. "Yes," I said. "I'll be vague, Gary. I won't tell her you're dying to wear her clothes." I blushed. I nodded my head. * * * On Saturday, Ginny wanted to eat at Hamburger Sally's. No, it isn't the popular chain, Hamburger Mary's. But it's a restaurant in Cincinnati, and it's staffed by transgender waitresses, which of course made Ginny a regular. The workers were young and cute. Most of them were barely out of high school, just feeling their way into the world. The job as waiting tables, and smiling and flirting with the customers. On Friday's, they did musical numbers. It was a great idea; it gave trans kids a place to work, and it let the public know that they weren't as odd as they might think. Ginny was well known at Hamburger Sally's. She had gotten to know most of the staff, and like everyone, the girls all liked her. But you know, they made a pretty good cheeseburger, too. So Ginny and I would find ourselves here about once a month. "Ginny," I said. "Ginny, we need to talk." "Uh-oh," Ginny said. "That usually means trouble." I picked at my fries. "Ginny, I've been seeing a doctor." "What? Are you all right?" "I'm ...fine, Ginny. I've been seeing a shrink to deal with ...some issues I have." "Issues?" "Yeah. Stress stuff, you know. I'm not supposed to talk about it. But Dr. Baxter wants to talk to you. She said it will help her treat me." "Well, obviously, I'll talk to her. But is it work?" "Ginny..." I said. "Okay, okay," she said. "I'm just worried about you. Can't you give me a hint?" "Sure," I said, grinning. "I'm Batman." She laughed. She threw her napkin at me. Three days later, Ginny met with Dr. Baxter. I wasn't there, but Ginny told me all about it. Ginny had started the meeting by asking about me, trying to figure out why I was getting help. She said I had blamed stress, but she wanted to know if there was more going on. Dr. Baxter admitted stress was part of it. She wouldn't say more. "I wondered," Ginny remembers saying. "Because Gary's kind of uptight a little." "What do you mean?" Dr. Baxter asked her. Ginny admitted she was nervous about telling Dr. Baxter about her hobby, how she loved trans movies and trans TV and trans news. She said she had always been this way. She had volunteered to work with trans teens. She had a good trans friend -- Beth. "Does Gary share your interests?" Dr. Baxter said. "No, not really," Ginny said. "I wish he did. Does that sound horrible to you? I'd love to play dress-up with him. But Gary doesn't do that. He doesn't even entertain it. I even bought him a uniform -- a maid's uniform -- but he won't even put it on. That's why I say he's stressed." Dr. Baxter looked at her. She smiled. "Ginny, it's not a problem that you're nice to transgender people," she said. "More people should be. I'm just worried about the conflict inside of Gary. I worry that this is feeding into that. I'm not taking sides. But you two should work this out." After that, it was mostly small talk. About Ginny's parents. About her home town of Lexington, Ky. About movies. About television. She was nice, Ginny decided. Maybe she could help Gary. * * As the two of them chatted the afternoon away, I was busy with my chores. It was laundry day, and we had let it build up for a week. As I was loading the washer, I tried to separate the colors from the whites. I picked up Ginny's white dress. I glanced around, then I held it up in front of me. I hugged it, feeling the softness, and my mouth went dry. I felt her lingerie, her bras and her panties. I wanted, with every fiber of my being, to put them on. To go dancing. To twirl the hem of my dress. I didn't, okay. I tossed the clothes aside, as if they were on fire. I shook my head. I was a guy, all right. Guys didn't entertain those kinds of thoughts. These were the most dangerous moments for me, the pockets of time when I was alone in the apartment, and Ginny's clothes were there to be borrowed. I felt the old urges like a siren's song. I had to be strong. I had to fight this. * * * There were ebbs and swells of my compulsion. On a good day, I didn't miss it. But on other days, I noticed every bit of clothing every customer wore. I imagined the cloth sliding across my body. I hadn't dressed in almost seven years. But I felt as if it was yesterday. I managed. I don't know how, but I did. But Ginny's birthday was coming up, and I had planned a surprise for her. It was a risk to my mental state, but I knew she'd like it. For one day, I could suffer a back step. I'd be okay. Wouldn't I? There is a transgender bar in Cincinnati. The Flamingo. They have drag shows there, and at the end of every show, they have amateur night, where the locals do their acts or strip. They get to act like they're the Candy Darlings of Cincinnati. At the end of the night, it could get rowdy. But it was fun. My plan was simple. I was going to treat her to the big timer's show with Mary Taylor Moore and Rose Trellis and Apple Annie, and then I was going to dress up for amateur night. It might not have been the smartest thing, but I knew that Ginny would like it. Surely, I was strong enough to do this for one night. Hey, most performers are nervous about performing. Me? I was nervous about what would come afterward. *** Maybe the hardest part of the week was the rehearsals. Say what you want about drag stars, but they're professions. They work on their verbal delivery. They work on their dance moves. They practice and they practice. Cherry Blossom was the manager at the Flamingo. She was interested in my story, of a guy who was willing to put on a dress to entertain his girlfriend, who was drag friendly. Cherry showed me the gowns they had in stock, but she explained that most of the girls brought their own. She explained to me that a lot of performers were over the top, with piled green hair and outlandish lashes, but many of them were true transexuals. When people criticize drag performers, they can lose sight of that. I didn't want to be outlandish, I explained. Ginny liked men in dresses, but she wasn't really into the camp that comes with a lot of drag shows. She saw it as a half-slap at womanhood, not as a tribute. Cherry showed me the foundation garments that went with the clothes. She showed me the wigs. She showed me rows and rows of heels. I would touch the lingerie, and my breathing grew shallow. Could I do this? There were going be backup singers in my act, but everyone couldn't make the rehearsals. So I went through the steps, trying to dance in heels, learning when to spin, when to shake my ass, when to blow kisses. On the second day of rehearsals, Cherry said it was time for me to wear a dress. I had come shaved that morning. I stepped into panties for the first time in years,, and I felt them close over me in a delicious manner. I put on a bra, and I smiled. What clothing makes you feel more feminine than a bra? I wriggled into a girdle for the shape it provided. Then I took a red flowing gown. And I pulled it over my head. And I was alive. Every inch of my skin was caressed. It was only then I realized fully what I had denied myself. It was like coming home, like the atoms in the air were electric. This would be hard to give up, I realized. Cherry put a wig on my head, and I felt the hair flow around my face. For just a snapshot in time, I was happy. I fit. Oh, there was work. For five days, Cherry worked me as if she was a horse trainer and I was running in a stakes' race. My routine got tighter. My clothes felt more normal. My makeup got better. I felt feminine, almost pretty. I was ready. * * On Saturday,night, I told Ginny I was taking her to an early dinner. So Ginny and I swung by and picked up Naomi and Jaycee to join us, and we headed downtown. Jayce had on a nice patterned sun dress, blue and white. We went to Spiro's, one of Ginny's favorite restaurants. We had pasta and wine, and I gave her diamond earrings. Jaycee was completely comfortable now. Any shock value Ginny or I might have had was gone. To us. Jaycee was a female neighbor. Simple as that. Afterward, I drove to a parking lot near the Flamingo. Ginny's eyes lit up. She knew then that I was taking her to a female impersonators' show. She looked at the Bill of Fare, recognizing this name and that one. I could have given her a new car with a diamond steering wheel, and she wouldn't have been happier. We took our table, near the front, in the middle of the room. There were roses on the table, and the waitress brought Ginny champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. It was her night. The show was good. The names of the queens themselves were particularly amusing. Lucy Lariat was funny, and Glory Hallalujah was sexy. Lauren Lips had the voice of an angel. Ginny laughed, and she sang along, and she kept clapping her hands. She was a little girl at the circus. Becky Buttcheeks was on now, which was my cue. I excused myself to go to the rest room (ostensibly). Instead, I went backstage, and there was a fury of powers and perfume. One girl had my hands in hers, painting my fingernails. I stepped into panties. Someone wrapped a longline bra around my middle.It was like a pit crew at an auto racing. Someone draped a shiny silver dress over my head. A wig went over my head. I stepped into heels. Different hands applied my makeup. I was gorgeous. At least, I felt gorgeous. "Ladies and gentlemen," Cherry was saying. "We've reached the amateur hour. But tonight, we have a special performer. Please say hello to the Unsinkable Molly Melons, who wants her wife to know she loves her. Ginny, are you ready?" I wish I could have seen her face. Jaycee told me later she was mesmerized, with her mouth agape. She started screaming. Then the curtain went up, and the song "It's Raining Men," and I was dancing in front of six backup dancers as we pantomimed. I tried to make out Ginny through the stage lights. I ran my hands down my sides, and I shook my rear end, and I kicked my legs as high as possible. This was for her, my angel, my love. My dress clung to me, the way a dress is supposed to feel. My breasts jiggled, the way breasts are supposed to jiggle. I was a girl again, and I was sticking around. I twirled and I linked arms with the backup dancers. A guy in the front row and I fake-kissed halfway through the number, and I fanned my face like my lips were burning. There was a small ripple of laughter. I shook my head so my hair bounced. I pushed out my chest to show off my breasts. It was the hottest thing I had ever done. I melted into the music. I felt the lights on my face.I beamed. The song melded from "It's Raining Men" to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." I stepped backstage, and my dress was removed. Instead, I put on sheer teddy and retook the stage, showing a bit more skin as I danced. The crows was into it now, clapping in time with the music and tossing flowers to the dancers. This was unique to amateur hour. The pros rarely show skin when they reach a certain level of stardom. But the rest of us were encouraged to flash a little skin. But there is a saying at Flamingo's. Tits Mean Tips. And so, as I shook my breast forms -- they looked real -- more money found its way into my garters. The music shifted again. It was "Passionate Kisses" by Mary Chapin Carpenter. We were now wearing nothing but a sheer skirt as we danced. And when it came to the grand finale, the backup dancers (six of them ) and I ripped the skirts off. There, glinting in the showlights, you could see that all of us were wearing chastity cages. As we turned, they reflected in the stage lights, like tiny fireflies. It was a hoot, a bang of a finish. I rushed backstage, euphoric, as the audience erupted in applause. Cherry handed me a feminine robe. I waded through the crowd, and the men who had tipped me leaned their faces toward me, expecting a kiss as their reward. In the glow of the moment, I kissed them all one by one. I tasted a little tongue. Then I was at our table, and Ginny embraced me. "Thank you," she said. "You're beautiful. I love you." "It was all for you, baby. I love you, too." "I know. Are you going home with any of these men?" she asked. I scowled. "Of course not. You're my baby. I go home with you. This doesn't change that." She smiled, and she kissed me again. "Go thank your fans," she said. "I'll wait here for my girlfriend." So I finished my kisses. Then I went back to change. Cherry handed me the silver dress to put on. "You can't wear guy's clothes home after this," she said. "But Molly, I want you to come back next week and dance. I think this could develop into something." I sat next to Ginny, and we watched the last few girls dance. It's amazing how much more seedy the bar became after the professionals left the stage. It was a strip club, more or less. But I wasn't complaining. People -- men -- kept sending drinks over. This is what I had denied myself in the pretense of being male for the world. The dress felt terrific on me. I know some trans women complain about heels, but mine felt like a dream. I loved my breasts. I loved my lipstick. I loved my wife. Ginny and I walked out into the night, our hands linked. Jaycee and Naomi were behind us, still grinning. They were holding hands, too. Girls' night. * * I awoke in the wee hours, still weary from our night of lovemaking. I leaned over and kissed Ginny's shoulder. I went to the bathroom and closed the door. I turned on the light. My makeup was smeared across my face. I grinned, then began to wipe it off, as I should have the night before. But, um, we were busy making love all night. I looked in the mirror, wondering what the night meant, and what the day promised. How would my rediscovered femininity mean? Would I dress once a month? Once a week? Twice a week? I picked up a lipstick tube, one of Ginny's. I swiped it across my lips. I smiled. I put on eyeliner and mascara. I snuck into the bedroom, and I went into our closet. I took the blue maid's dress off of the hanger. I picked panties and a bra out of Ginny's underwear drawer (mine were dirty). Moving back the the bathroom, I dressed in the dark. I put on the maid's dress and its petticoats, and I felt wonderfully girly. This was still Ginny's birthday weekend, right? I grabbed my heels from beside the bed and made my way downstairs. I put coffee on, and I made bagels.I got out cheese and strawberries. Without realizing it, I began to hum. And then Ginny was in the doorway, leaning against the wall and smiling. "Good morning, pretty lady," she said to me. I smiled. I curtsied. She laughed. "That was the best birthday ever," she said. "You're the best queen ever. When you flashed your cock cage, I nearly fainted." "Cherry's idea," I said. "Is it on now?" "No," I said. "It isn't." She giggled. "And why not?" She laughed again. She looked me up and down. "And aren't you pretty in your maid's dress?" Ginny said. "I didn't think you liked women's clothes." "I like them too much," I said. "I always have." We sat and had our coffee, and I told her about my teen years, and about my resolve to give it up. I told her that's what brought me to therapy. I told her how hard the struggle was. "And now? Are you my maid now?" she giggled. I sighed. "If you want me to be..." Ginny's eyes widened. "Really? I was joking. But that dress looks so good on you." "It feels good, Ginny. It feels right." "Sweetie, you can be my maid any time you want. You can play at it. You can take it seriously. You can buy more uniforms. Hell, if you want, I'll buy you a Wonder Woman outfit and a nurse's outfit and a cheerleader outfit." "Ginny, I'd like to take it seriously," I said. "I'd like to give being your maid a shot. It's so tempting." She smiled. "Do I get to be the Mistress?" "If you want." "Oh, Molly. Can I call you Molly? I don't know beans about being a Mistress. I know I'll have to hold your keys for your little jail. And I'll make the rules if you want. But we're going to have to get through this together. Is that okay, baby? Can we find our way to give you whatever you need? I know sissies like discipline, and humiliation, and guidance. But you're going to have to help me to guide you. Okay? I nodded. I looked at the floor. This was my surrender. "As you wish...madam." I didn't know about the future. For now, however, Ginny needed coffee. ** * "You look good in that red dress," Dr. Baxter said. "Do you feel feel good?" I kept my eyes on the floor. "Yes ma'am," I said. "And how is Ginny with this?" she said. "Ginny's the happiest girl in the whole U.S.A.," I said. "She was born to have her own sissy. All those movies, all those shows she watched were just leading up to this. It isn't just that I want to be a sissy; it's that she's leading me there." Dr. Baxter smiled. "And you're at peace with it?" "Yes, ma'am," I said. "I was fighting a foolish fight. I was trying to be who other people wanted me to be. This is who I was supposed to be. I mean, I know there is a difference between trans women and drag queens, and between sissies and biological women. But this is me. A sissy in a dress." She nodded. "Molly, it doesn't matter what clothing a person wears. It didn't matter what meat they put on their sandwich. It doesn't matter what car they drive. This are such small things in life. You're a good person. You love your wife. That's true whether you're wearing a skirt or a pair of slacks." I nodded. I finally understood. "Do they know at your job?" "Yes," I said. "It's not a big deal whether you're a guy or a girl at Best Buy. They've been great about me wearing dresses. Of course, they're fine at Flamingo's, where I work on the weekends. My mother seems okay with it. I'm happy." She smiled. "I don't want to get personal, but are two still faithful to each other?" "Of course we are," I said. "You don't need to cheat to be in a Dom-sub relationship. Ginny said I could have a guy if I wanted, but I don't need one. If I want someone to penetrate me, well, Ginny can do it." I blushed. Dr. Baxter smiled. "There is nothing wrong with anal sex," she said. "As long as Ginny likes being the domme. They have a lot of nice gadgets to play with nowadays." I squirmed. "I know. I'm wearing a plug now." "Too much information," she said, sticking her fingers in her ears I laughed. Dr. Baxter tapped her pen against her lips. "And you're okay being the submissive one?" I smiled. "It suits me. Ginny suits me. I've always done things for her. But now, it's better. I love cooking. I'm not crazy about ironing, but she wants it. I'll get better at it. I feel like a trans woman. When Ginny wears her ...toy, she says she feels transgender. It's perfect." Dr. Baxter shrugged. "Molly, a few months ago, you came here as a stressed white guy. You're leaving as a happy white girl. I think we've done okay. So let's get a cup of coffee." "Yes ma'am," I said. "One thing, though," Dr. Baxter said with a smile. "I'll expect you to pour the cream." Again, I smiled. We walked toward Starbucks. You could even say that one of us minced. Copyright, Cassandra Morgan