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Abby's Panties Chapter 1 (i) I'm not sure how unique I am, and let's face it - I'm as unique as everyone else - but I discovered my fascination with wearing women's clothes late in life. I was thirty-nine years old, two months shy of turning forty, when I happened upon a pair of my ex-wife's panties. I was cleaning the house, something which I both enjoy doing, and pretty much did exclusively when I was married. I found them behind the dryer as I was planning on removing and cleaning the dryer vent, one of the many tasks of a diligent homeowner. The panties were nothing sexy. I think Abby, Abigail when she was being formal, called them her period panties. They were a misty blue, with a small flower stitched in the center waistband. The gusset was stained. They were plain and boring and covered with an ashen dust bunny the size of Oklahoma. I picked them off the floor, holding them in my hand. That lone, forgotten pair of panties was the only thing Abby had left behind when she moved out. Turning forty, starting the later years of my life, was not something I was looking forward to. Thirty had not been bad, by then I was married; had a beautiful two-story house in the Peachtree suburbs of Atlanta, and had my own consulting business, designing flight plans for regional airports, earning almost a quarter million dollars a year. Yes, thirty-year-old me had the proverbial bull by the horns. Thirty-year-old me also had stresses that I was not able to fully comprehend so how was I going to handle them? I had nine employees all relying on me. I had countless contacts demanding my time, my focus, and my energy. I worked long hours, six, sometimes seven days a week. Yes, I made good money, but I did not have the time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. And, sadly, I seemed to have lost the time I should have given my marriage. Ask any couple why they divorced, and you will get two different stories with the truth usually hiding somewhere in between. In my case, I was the reason. It was one of the many things that Abby and I both agreed upon. Artists suffer for their art; I suffered for the all mighty dollar. Don't get me wrong, I was happy with what I did, and the money was good. Very good. Before I turned forty, and six months after my divorce, my house was paid for, two cars and one awesome twenty-eight- foot boat were equally all mine. Ever though I never got to take the boat out onto Lake Lanier, it still brought me joy seeing it sitting in my driveway. The lawyers had been paid, Abigail had been set for life, and I still had a couple of million in the bank. But what good was that money when a pair of plain, light blue panties holding onto a mountain of dust could bring a tear to my eye? What I had was good, but it did not compensate for what I had lost. Abby was a blind date set up by my sister. She was all the family I had left after our parents had died on what was supposed to be a happy holiday in Colorado. Instead, a drunk driver ended their lives leaving Jennifer and I to fend for ourselves. "You'll love her," Jennifer said. "She has your sense of humor." "Uh huh," I said, my eyebrows rising. "Seriously, John, what do you have to lose?" Jennifer and I were sitting in my living room, sipping Miller Light, and watching the Falcons lose to the Jets. "I've told her about you and she's-" My sis paused, looked around the room like she was afraid to be overheard before whispering, "Interested." I think I laughed. I know I swatted her with a pillow. "Fine," I said. "Give me her number." It hadn't taken that much convincing. My first date with Abby was on a Wednesday night. I met her a pool hall where we shared spicy hot wings, cold beer, and a half-dozen games of pool. "Am I being hustled?" I asked as she beat me the third game in a row. "Maybe." She stuck out her tongue. It was a cute tongue. We chatted about nothing deep. She told me about her parents living in Colorado, "because the wanted to smoke pot," she said. And about her brother, "He's in the Navy." She went on and on about the Japanese Fighting Fish she kept on the dresser in the bedroom. "I can't wait to see it," I said then hung my rosy cheeks as I realized what I had implied. Had I really just invited myself to her bedroom? I just met her. It was far too early to talk about things like that. I started to stammer out an apology, feeling ashamed. Abby just laughed and batted her eyes. I won two out of the next three games, sinking the eight ball on my last shot with a victory dance that wasn't the least bit diminished for only wining a third of the games. Abby applauded with good-natured grace. I drove her home and shook her hand, promising to call. It had been a glorious first date. I did not have many of those. That date was about six months after I started my business. The long hours started slowly at first, only escalating about a year after I saw the lovely red fish with purple fins swimming in a tiny bowl on Abby's dresser. "That's Mulan," Abby said as I eyed the fish for the first time. "She's pretty," I said. I gave the fish another lingering glance before turning my head at the sound of a zipper falling. Abby was slowly siding the zipper down the side of her little black dress. She kept her eyes on me, watching my reactions. Could she see how she was affecting me? Could she see how I kept my focus on her hands, watching as the zipper fell, taking in the alabaster skin revealed to me one languid inch at a time? Did she see the smile rising on my lips? She shook her head as I stepped towards her. "There," she said. Abby had a lovely bedroom set. A huge king-sized bed dominated the back wall. The bed was flanked by a pair of matching end tables. An Amazon Alexa was sitting on her side of the bed, showing the time. It wasn't until later that I realized that if Abby had one side of the bed, then the other was mine. Even then I had seen us becoming something more than two people going on dates. The dresser, sporting the feisty Mulan, was sitting opposite the bed. In the corner was a deep green chair with a matching hassock. "Sit," she said. I took a seat. When I licked my lips, Abby laughed. She continued her strip tease. She finished unzipping her dress. On her face there was a look that was both predatory and joyous. She was smiling with her mouth but her dark brown eyes were alight with a fiery intensity. Overhead a ceiling fan was spinning, but somehow, even under the breeze, the room was getting hotter. Abby pulled her dress open, revealing her bra. It was a deep blue, the color of the night sky with the full moon shining overhead. Black lace adorned the edges. I wondered briefly if her panties matched and knew that my question would be answered soon enough. I savored the anticipating by licking my lips again. It was as involuntary as breathing and it revealed my burning interest to Abigail, who was smiling as she toyed with her dress, pulling the cloth higher to hide what she had just revealed, only to lower it once more. Abby waggled a finger at me as I beckoned her closer. "Come here," my fingers said. "No," her own fingers replied. Abby zipped the dress, only to lower the zipper immediately. She was smiling, her eyes riveted to mine. She knew what she was doing, knew the affect she was having on me. My hips shifted, trying to relieve the pressure I was feeling. Her grin growing wider, Abby finally let the dress fall to her sexy black heels. I did not know at the time what kind of shoes they were, pumps, or how tall they were, four-inch. That knowledge came later. She stepped over her dress, undulating towards me in her deep blue bra and, my question answered, matching panties. Her black stockings, sheer from the thigh down, with thick lace at the top, stayed up by themselves. She was a vision. She walked towards me and put her heel on the hassock, directly between my parted knees. Her knee wavered from side to side. My attention was focused where her thighs met, at the soft fabric between her legs. As her knee moved, I could see everything, then nothing, then everything again. She was toying with me. When I reached for her, she shook her head and backed away, smiling even larger. Abby backed up until she hit the bed. She sat down and shimmied backward, moving higher on the bed, then higher still. She lay flat, crossing her hands behind her head and spreading her legs. She lay there, open and available, her head supported by her arms. She stared at me, her beautiful brown eyes full of mischief, merriment, and something else. Something hungry. "Do me," she said, her voice deep and needy. There was no hesitation as I leapt onto the bed. After that night we were officially a couple; we became inseparable. Abby moved in four months later and we were engaged six months after that. Jennifer had been my best man, and her toast had the guests laughing so hard that I thought my aunt Jeri would pass out from lack of oxygen. On our honeymoon, we flew to Rome before driving to an upscale villa I had rented in Tuscany. We spent ten days in a world all our own. There had been a long, three-day stretch where neither of us had donned a single piece of clothing. Those were the good, simple days before work took my time like a vampire taking blood. As work compounded, something had to give, and sadly, that something had been my relationship with Abby. The inseparable couple began to separate. I would go to work sometimes before Abby woke for the day, and I would return from work long after she got home. At first, she would make us both dinner, and I'd come home to find a covered plate waiting for me in the microwave, ready for me to hit start. Then Abby started to cook for one, and finally, she wouldn't cook at all. "You don't take time for me anymore," she would say, causing an argument. Not because she was wrong, but because she was right. I felt guilty and so I lashed out. I regret that now. At the time, however, it seemed like she was attacking me. "You know I'm doing this for us," I would lie. And, yes, it was a lie. When I was at work, I never thought about Abby. Not because I didn't love her. No, the sad truth is I still love her, and I know that she still loves me. When I was at work I would concentrate on work and nothing more. The rest of the world did not seem to matter. Abigail included. She moved out on a Thursday. I had been so focused on setting up a new regional hub for a tiny airline in Richmond, Virginia, that I hadn't even noticed that night. It wasn't until I woke up the next day and I spotted the empty closets and the dresser drawers hanging open that I thought something was off. It was seeing Mulan missing from atop the dresser that brought an eerie, dawning realization that she had left. I cried that day and I was crying now, standing next to the dryer, holding those stained period panties. They were all I had left of the woman I still loved. "Abby," I said to my empty laundry room. I made my way to the bedroom mindlessly, unaware that I was moving or that I had a destination until I arrived. I brushed the panties clean, holding them reverently to my face as the last dust bunny fell to the floor. "Abby," I said again. I sniffed the odorless panties, saddened that I couldn't smell her perfume. I put the panties on the bed and stripped off my clothes. Standing naked, I stepped into those abandoned panties. I slid them up my legs. They were snug. They did not fit right. The elastic at the waist tore with a loud ripping sound. Still I pulled, tugging them into place. They were overly tight, reminding me of the tightey-whitey's I had worn as a kid. The ones that were too tight to wear after I'd outgrown them, but not ragged enough to throw away. Wearing Abby's panties made me feel closer to my ex-wife, like we were connected by those worn cotton fibers. I felt something else, too. A rising excitement rose within me. It reminded me of the time when I was seven and standing next to a rack of magazines, with shelves of candies, chips, condiments, and condoms looking on, I had snuck a comic book into my jeans. Walking out of the store, my ill-gotten goods hidden inside my pants had made me feel both invulnerable and frightened at the same time. It felt like I had gained a victory over the universe. That I had managed to get away with something that I knew was wrong and loving that feeling. That feeling had brought about a small wave of kleptomania that only ended when I inevitably got caught and had to spend a humiliating week standing in front of McAllister's Mercantile, holding a sign advertising my crime. Everyone I knew had come to witness my shame. I never stole again. Now, however, wearing Abby's period panties I was once again feeling that sense of overcoming some treacherous obstacle or playing tug-of- war with the forbidden. I was frightened and even though I was alone in my house, I couldn't help but turn my head at every sound: the air conditioning clicking on, the house settling, a dog barking outside - all caused my head to swivel. I felt closer to Abigail, and for a moment, I wasn't thinking about work. My job had totally slipped my mind. I was thinking about Abby. I was thinking about the panties, straining against my waist and my suddenly interested erection. I felt naughty and needy and when my hands slipped into my panties I giggled, then laughed until my vision dimmed. How many times had my hand slipped into Abby's panties? And now, here I was, doing it again. My hand became Abby's hand and when I was spent, my eyes now dry and those boring panties wet, I removed the panties only to wash them reverently in the sink, hanging them over the shower curtain to dry. It was only after I was clean and dressed did work once again overpower my thoughts. My focus returned to what I would have to do when the new work week started in the morning. I frowned, already missing that rapturous half-hour when my mind wasn't concentrating on work and had instead been reveling in the moment, even if that moment had been caused by something both interesting and delightfully naughty. Those panties, left behind at the end of my marriage, had somehow become important. I thought of work, missing the distraction of the panties still drying in my bathroom. I made dinner, wondering how I could help the new regional airline gain two extra flights a day, a move that would increase their presence and their bottom line. I made notes on the pad of paper next to my hand as I ate dinner, moving numbers and cities around like pegs on a cribbage board. Work had once again dominated my every thought. It was only that brief period, wearing Abby's castaway panties, that work had been relegated to some other time. As I got ready for bed, brushing my teeth, I stared at the panties still draped over the shower curtain. There was something to wearing them that had been calming. Was it those specific panties or would any pair work? What about a bra? A dress? The thoughts came faster and faster, moving at the same speed as my toothbrush. When I rinsed my mouth, I spotted blood in the sink. I had been studying those panties, oblivious to my brushing. Focused wasn't a good work. I had been absorbed. Once again, those panties had taken all other thoughts from my head. I rinsed my mouth until there was no more blood, put the toothbrush in the little cup next to the sink, and grabbed the panties. I slipped them on. I heard another thread give way; I wouldn't be wearing these panties long if that kept up. Not that that mattered at that moment. I hastened the panties into place. I looked quizzically at the man in the mirror, observing with more sadness than I wanted to admit, that it had been some time since I had seen a smile. I slept in Abby's panties. And for the first time, in far too long, I drifted to sleep without wondering what the next day would bring. Because of those panties I was able to turn my mind off and just let sleep come. (ii) I awoke the next morning feeling lighter than I had in a long time. I slipped off the covers only to be surprised by Abby's panties. More than that, I found that once again they needed to be cleaned. Had I ever, in all my years, had a wet dream? As I awoke that Monday morning, I couldn't recall a single time that had happened. I showered, first in the panties to clean them, then out of them. I shaved, eyeing the panties once again hanging on the edge of the shower to dry. I brushed my teeth, staring at the panties. Leaving the shower, I gave a backwards glance to those innocent panties. Oh, but they weren't that innocent. There was something about them, something that was both soothing and arousing. I finished getting ready for work. I dressed in my normal briefs. I didn't feel anything for them. They were just a normal, slightly baggy pair of grey plaid boxers. Pants, shirt, tie, shoes and socks and I was ready for the day. Only when I made it to the kitchen, where I made a large cup of black coffee to go, was I able to put the panties out of my mind. And with that, came all the complex problems work would bring. If I can't get two extra flights, maybe I could get one. Maybe if we added Canton as a hub instead of Cleveland, we could get the client an extra round-trip run. All the normal difficulties, the ones I liked solving, returned to my mind with the thundering power of a stampede, trampling the memory of the panties hanging over the railing in my shower. I motored through a drive-thru for a fast food sandwich, knowing that it would probably be the only thing I ate during the day. My secretary, a matronly woman with snowy hair always pulled into a tight bun, would offer to bring me lunch. "Can I bring you anything to eat, Mister Thompson?" "No, thank you, Alice," I would say. "I'll eat later." Later always seemed to be late at night driving home where I would invariably stop and pick up something for dinner, usually a deli sandwich made with smoked turkey, swiss cheese and spicy mustard. "You need to eat something," she would say. She didn't scold me, she didn't lecture me, but she did let me know that I was wrong. The best way to describe it was mothering. "You're too thin." I smiled, taking her criticism for a compliment. "Thank you, Alice," I would say before returning to work. I finished the day. I glanced at the clock - 8:43. Once again I was the last to leave. I locked the office, unlocked my car, and drove to the deli, making it there right before they closed. I ordered, roast beef on a toasted baguette with a homemade pickle. I ate on the way home. It wasn't until I entered the bathroom that Abby's panties caught my eye anew. Just seeing them resting innocently on the shower curtain rod created a magical shift in my perspective. Work disappeared to be replaced with memories of the day before and with those memories came thoughts of Abby. I picked up the panties. They were dry but a little stiff even though I had cleaned them well. No matter. I stripped off my clothes only to pull those panties up my legs. The elastic at the waist gave a little more. Now when I walked, I would constantly have to pull the panties back into place. Alice had called me thin, and I am skinny, but I'm still a man and I was still just a bit stockier than Abby had been. Once again, I wondered if it had to be Abby's panties that caused my thoughts to drift away from work and towards other things. Towards Abby. There's an old song about hearts not breaking evenly. I learned that when Abby left. Her heart had been breaking slowly. They day I found her gone, my heart had broken all at once, like a mirror falling off the wall to shatter into a thousand angry shards. I can't say which is worse. I cried when Abby left, she later told me that she cried daily for a full month. No, hearts don't break evenly. And they heal just as lopsided. I've not spoken to Abby since the day our divorce became final, but I still thought about her every day. "I've always loved you," I told her they day the judge slammed her gavel down, ending my marriage with a sharp, dreadful thump. I hope she's moved on. I truly hope she doesn't miss me as much as I miss her. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the top, and took a long pull. I burped, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and made my way into den. I turned the flat screen on, flipping the channel to ESPN where some sportscaster was talking about the Cavaliers and their chances of repeating as NBA champions. I muted the TV, only to fire up my computer. I hadn't planned on it, in fact, I barely remembered doing it when the package arrived two days later, but sitting at my computer I fired up Chrome, typed the URL to Victoria's Secret into the address bar, and began browsing. I looked at panties first, from thongs to briefs, to G-strings and everything in between. I pulled Abby's panties down just to get her size, a small, so I figured since they almost fit, I'd need maybe a medium or a large. I browsed the colors and the sizes, not knowing what a cheeky panty was any more than I knew how plum differed from maroon when I thought they looked to be the same color. I was curious though. Would another pair of panties affect me the same or was it only the ones I had found harboring a fugitive dust bunny? The ones that belonged to the woman I still loved but had foolishly abandoned in search of the almighty dollar? The prices didn't matter, nor did the styles. I selected a pair of simple cotton panties, similar to the ones I was wearing. The color was white, though the order form called them chalk. I selected medium then upped it to a large. I created my account, typed in my address and credit card number, and sent in my order. Afterwards, I kept browsing. I looked at bras and slips and garter belts and camisoles. Each item had me wondering if they held the power to wash my workday away. Even as I sat there, browsing the web, sipping my beer, and reading the news ticker on the tv, work didn't enter my mind. If Abby was to be trusted, and she should be, then my normal at home pattern would be to think about work at the cost of ignoring everything, and regrettably, everyone else. That I was able to cast work aside by just contemplating how each of the items would look on me told me that I was onto something, even if I was unsure what that something could be. (iii) Wednesday night I returned home, once again stopping for a deli sandwich - turkey with swiss, on a whole wheat roll - for an overly late lunch. It was almost 8 when I got home, my earliest hour that week. Sitting on my front step was a small brown envelope. For a moment I had to wonder what I had ordered. Then it came to me. I raced into the house, work immediately forgotten. I didn't even realize that fact until later, while lying in bed, one hand absently toying with the tiny flower at the top of my new panties. I locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and made my way into the kitchen. At the center island I opened my new treasure. Opening the nondescript paper envelope, I found the panties within were wrapped in a clear plastic bag. I tore the bag open. The panties were bigger than Abby's. I brought them to my nose. They had a mild chemical smell; I'd have to wash them before I truly wore them but that could wait. I had to try them on. That was important. Just then, it felt like the most important thing in my life. I stripped in the kitchen, my clothes falling into a heap at my feet. Standing naked save for my black socks, I slid those panties up my leg. The size was almost perfect; they were perhaps a bit too snug still, but I didn't hear the disappointing rip of fabric. The next pair would be extra-large, but I was sure that I'd found my size thanks to this one simple purchase. While tight, I still thought they fit well enough. I ran my hand over my behind, feeling the cotton against my skin. I traced the outline of that suddenly interested part of me, before pulling my hand away. These new, plain white cotton panties were arousing. Not just Abby's. I picked up my clothes, only to drop them in the washing machine. I smiled at the dark gap behind the dryer, like it was an accomplice in a bank heist that had gone according to plan. I walked from room to room, feeling how the elastic of the new panties, my new panties, felt digging into my legs or waist. They didn't budge or bunch. That thought made me smile. How big did my panties have to be before I could get them in a bunch. My smile turned to a laugh. When was the last time I laughed? I couldn't remember. I thought that Abby probably knew and if that was true then it had been well over six months. I spent the evening in my panties, sipping a beer with ESPN on. It could have been the news, or reruns of some mindless sitcom, or even the paint drying channel for how much attention I gave the television screen. No, I was focused, much like I typically was at work, but instead of thinking of airline flight paths, or issues with staff, I was browsing panties again. I knew my size now and I filled my shopping cart. I added thongs first. I always liked how Abby looked wearing them, so I was curious to see if I liked wearing them just as much. I added boy shorts and bikini briefs. I added two G-string panties to the ever-growing collection in my cart. I selected colors from basic black to white to pastels in yellow and green and blue. I bought pink panties and orange panties. I selected simple and I selected sexy. Some had more lace than cotton, others had so little fabric I had to wonder how they could charge so much. Oh, but it didn't stop there. I looked at bras next, wondering my size. I'd never worn a bra. I'd never even dressed as a woman for Halloween. Somehow, sitting there browsing Victoria's not so secret secret, I wanted to not only buy a bra, I wanted those bras to match my panties. Abby had been like that; her bra and panties always seemed to match. "A woman just feels better, John, when everything matches." I had no reason to doubt her, and even though I wasn't a woman and I didn't want to be one, I still liked the idea of my bra matching my panties. I didn't know my bra size. I read the sizing guide and went from there. I wore a size 38 jacket so I reasoned my bra would be a 38. Next, I needed a cup size. Abby had been a solid B, though sometimes she would complain that her bra was too tight. Since she was a little smaller than I was, I thought that to be proportional I'd need a least a cup size bigger. I was guessing. The only way to know for sure was to have a proper fitting. Another option came to mind. I ordered nine bras in total: why not? I can afford it. I ordered three of every cup size, B, C, and D, of a trio of bras, sized 36, 38, and 40 for good measure. The styles confused me. I didn't know the difference between a demi bra and a perfect shape bra. Push-up I could figure but staring at the photos they mostly looked the same to me. To keep it simple, all nine bras were of the same style. Once I knew my size I could experiment. The bras I ordered were all a faint blue with black polka dots. Those little pips appealed to me. Continuing with my shopping I browsed camisoles next. They looked soft and inviting. I wondered if the little thin strap would fall off my shoulder like it had for Abby so many times. I never tired of reaching over to help her, aiming to tug the other strap down instead of righting the errant strap. Often, at least during the good, early years, that would lead to a squeal, a laugh, and then something more. That memory stung. All the memories of my ex-wife stung. The good ones made me miss her; the bad ones made me hate myself. Since I needed extra-large panties, I assumed I needed extra large camisoles. I found a few I liked. I never stopped to wonder why I would be liking lingerie. I'd never thought of wearing it before. Was it because it was naughty or because it reminded me of Abby and everything I'd lost? Or was it because I was able to push work aside and unwind. People are complicatedly simple. It was probably all of those; it was likely none of those. And it didn't matter. I was having fun. I wasn't hurting anyone. And work was forgotten. At the office, I keep a bottle of aspirin in my desk drawer. I keep a bottle of aspirin in my car. I keep a bottle of aspirin in my desk at home, and I keep another bottle in the master bathroom next to my toothbrush, shaving cream, and a half-empty tube of toothpaste. Headaches seem to follow me, but as I sat there, having moved on from camisoles to stockings and garter belts, I realized I did not have a headache. The dull throbbing that seemed to follow me like a stalker had faded away like morning fog burning away with the rising sun. I'd felt it when I got home, an ache as intimate as a tumor. Now, much like work, my headache was gone. I paused to ponder that revelation. How long had it been since I hadn't felt the mild underpinning of a headache threatening, or the full-on tsunami of a migraine? I truthfully couldn't remember. It was almost enough to make me shriek in joy. I kept browsing, only stopping when I had spent over five hundred dollars. Panties weren't that expensive, but bras were ridiculous. By the time I placed my order I was giddy with anticipation. I couldn't explain it. I wasn't even sure I wanted to. I just knew I was onto something. Abby had told me, first kindly, then with disgust, and finally with rage, that I had to do something. That I was tearing us apart, that I needed something to put my mind right. Anything to allow me to put work aside, to relax. To be me. She was right, she usually was, even if I was far too proud to admit that to myself and I never let Abby know that sad little truth. Had I finally found what it is Abby knew I needed? What would happen if I had never found those panties? I thought, maybe, I'd work myself into an early grave. It was still far too early to know, but somehow it felt like I was onto something. That I would finally find a way to relax even if what I found wasn't something I was expecting or was considered, if not normal, then mainstream. And what did it matter? If it worked, it was good enough for me. A placebo was as effective as a drug if the results were the same. I closed the browser and turned up the sound on the TV. A talking head was giving a report on the Heat losing to the Magic. I sat, taking in the NBA highlights. When the show ended and the new one began, I flipped through the channels, stopping on an old movie about a Great White shark terrorizing Amity Island. I watched the movie until I was too tired to stay awake, long before chief Brody told the son of a bitch to smile. It was only after I'd brushed my teeth and crawled under the covers, listening to the droning whirl of my ceiling fan that it dawned on me that for the first time since Abby had moved out I was able to just sit down and watch a show without thinking of work. (iv) Friday brought of those first-time-in-forever moments that had seemed to come on me like a mammoth wave cresting an unobservant surfer. I left the office before the sun set. I left the office before the clock stuck eight. I left the office before the other members of my staff. It was just past four when I noticed the time and thought that there was an order waiting for me at the house. Suddenly, and not surprisingly, that seemed infinitely more important than work. "Have a good weekend, Alice," I said, walking out of my office. Alice gave me a look of stunned incredulity that I was still smiling about twenty minutes later when I pulled into my subdivision. "You," she said, then, a few seconds later, "Too." She was as surprised as I was. "See you Monday." "You bet." I parked my car, smiling at the large brown box sitting on my doorstep. I practically skipped into the house, the box under one arm. I stripped off my clothes, socks included this time, before returning to the box as it sat waiting for me on the kitchen island. I opened the box, pulling out my newest treasures. Each item was wrapped separately in its own plastic bag. I tore each individual package open. The panties were larger then both Abby's and the first pair I'd ordered. I pulled the first pair up my legs, settling them against my waist and tucking myself into place. I thought they fit just right. I opened all the panties, looking at the pastel kaleidoscope of color. They were softer than my boxers and far brighter. I thought they were cheery in a way, like you could be happy not just seeing them but wearing them. Before my innocent discovery, I had never thought of wearing panties. It wasn't something I'd ever considered. Why would I? I was a man. I didn't want to be a woman. Even standing in my kitchen, wearing a pair of yellow panties with lacy around the waist and leg holes, I still didn't want to be a woman. I didn't consider myself transgendered. I did not feel that gender played a role in what was happening. I guess if I had to describe what I was becoming it would be a cross dresser, though I didn't really need to label things. It was the clothes that fascinated me. No, they did more than charm me. I had to admit that. The huge order spilled on the concrete slab of my counter told that story. They had enraptured me. And it wasn't the clothes, not really, it was what the lingerie did. How putting on a pair of panties had somehow allowed me to unwind. Abby, if she were around, would say it was miraculous. I opened a bra next. I had never worn one and I had way more experience taking one off than putting one on, but it wasn't that hard to figure out. I had nine bras to choose from and by the time I was done, I knew the size correlated with the suit jackets I normally wore. I wore a size 38. I tried the B's, the C's and the D's, stuffing the cups with wadded up paper towels until I thought they were the right size. I thought the B cup was too small. C was probably right, but the man in me liked the D cups better. It felt weird holding my hands up to caress my bra, my thumbs caressing the lace. I kept going, of course. I tried the camisoles. Two were snug but the other three I ordered fit well. The shiny, shimmery fabric raised goose pimple along my flesh. My yellow panties tented as the soft satin caressed my skin, the hem toying with my thighs like a breeze. The garter belts were next. I tried them on, and they all seemed to fit. I donned a pair of stockings, jet, something I would have called black. The same way I would call chalk white. I guess that's why I never got into marketing. I clipped the stockings to the garter belts and walked around the room, feeling an electric tingle where the taut strap of the belt snapped against my thigh as the hem of the camisole seemed to caress the same, overheated skin. I tried on everything, discarding the items that did not fit. I knew my bra size, my panty size, and my camisole size. It wasn't knowledge I even knew I needed but it was something I was glad to know. I wandered around the house, savoring the sensuous feeling of the satin and lace. My face was red with excitement, even after I took care of the most demanding part of me. That night I slept in it all for the first time. After that night, I never wore my boxers again. Chapter 2 (i) Saturday morning, I awoke still wearing my panties. My bed was littered with paper towels; my bra had sadly deflated. The paper towels gave me another idea; I needed something better than paper towels to stuff my bra. As my coffee was brewing, the smell of it filling the air and morning sun spilling in through the slats of my blinds, I opened my laptop and began browsing again. I knew my bra size now - a happy discovery - and so I began to look at ways to fill the cups. My Keurig beeped, pulling me from the browser long enough to grab the cup, add two scoops of sugar and a healthy pour of two percent. I took a sip of my coffee, made a loud smacking noise, then returned to the computer. I searched for breast forms and was inundated with fake breasts of every size and shape and color. Some had nipples, some did not. Some glued on, which was both fascinating and maybe a little more than I wanted to do. I found one that was more like a bra itself with clear plastic straps that went over the shoulders and around the back. That one looked the most appealing for a first, trial run. As before, I wasn't worried about the money. I placed the order, checking the box for next day shipping. I wouldn't get them on Sunday which was oddly disappointing. I finished my coffee, made a second cup, and finished that as well, before brewing a third. I scrambled a trio of eggs and ate those with a slice of buttered wheat toast. As I ate, I continued shopping, looking at other things that both aroused and surprised me. I had my lingerie and soon enough I'd be sporting a pair of 38D breasts, but I wanted more. I can't say why. Was it as simple as being able to push work aside? Maybe. I'd always been the type to do something as best as I could, even if it took tons of extra work. I'd never once been able to wash my car without following it up with a thorough waxing. Was this new fascination the same or was there something else, something deeper? I shrugged as I took another sip of coffee, not really caring why I was suddenly so enamored by women's lingerie and ample breast forms. I finished breakfast then took a shower. Standing in the water, I glanced at my hairy legs. Shaking my head for being foolish I left the shower just long enough to grab my razor, a packet of fresh blades, and my shaving cream. I had tried on the stockings the previous night. They had felt interesting. And amazing. My legs had been warm and somewhat tingly, like the nylons had been giving me energy. I had liked them, but I didn't like the way my leg hairs had looked matted and how some errant hairs had stuck through. I had not realized I was going to shave my legs until I was standing in the shower, my back to the water with my leg up on a small ledge, dragging a fresh blade against my calf, whisking away a layer of snowy shaving cream only to leave a denuded swath of skin. Over and over I ran the blade over my legs until my legs were bare. Standing naked in my bathroom I thought the room felt colder. That the hair that was now clumped at the bottom of the shower drain had kept my skin warmer and that without it I could better feel the cool currents or air on my skin. I ran my hands on my legs. It felt more than weird; it felt alien. But it felt kind of arousing, too. Back in the bedroom I donned the same pair of jet-black stockings laughing as I finally realized how they got their name. I pulled them up my legs. The felt invigorating and electric and silky and arousing and maddening all at once. I rubbed my calves, shivering at my own touch. Did every woman know this delicious madness? If so, it seemed cruel that they kept it to themselves. I donned a pair of black panties, and just to match, a black bra. I stuffed the bra with socks this time instead of paper towels, suddenly frustrated that the breast forms I had just ordered had not been delivered by drone while I was in the shower. I spent the evening watching ESPN while browsing the internet on my laptop. I was looking at heels now, figuring that if my car being washed was the stockings caressing my legs, then the heels had to be the coat of wax that followed the final rinse. I knew my own shoe size and if the sizing charts were to be believed then I needed a heel two sizes more. Abby had worn heels a lot. She was the manager of a bank in downtown Marietta, a suburb of Atlanta. Every day she would put on her power suit, usually with a skirt that came close to caressing her knees. She wore pantyhose, keeping the secret of nylons on shaved legs a secret, instead of stockings, but she always wore heels. I didn't know the size of the heel, three inches maybe. She had owned dozens of pairs in solid colors of red and blue and black to some with floral patterns or the skins of leopards or crocodiles. Her shoes always matched, if not her outfit, then her mood. Now I was browsing heels. Did I need a black pair to go with my black lingerie? Did I want a different color, white maybe, to contrast with my stockings, bra, and panties? Maybe I needed both? There were too many questions and too many distractions and those distractions were fantastic. I clicked on style after style. Some had pointed toes, some rounded. Some had open toes. Would I need to paint my toenails if I wore those? I thought maybe I did and that led to even more browsing, this time for nail polish in colors like blush and pomegranate to eggplant and disco ball silver. I remember Abby's nails; her hands were usually clear with just the tip of them painted white, her toes would vary depending on who knows what. What color would I need? Click, click, click, into my cart they went. With the nail polish finished I went back to the heels. Those were far more interesting. Would my own steps make that staccato sound as I walked? I hoped so. I looked at boots that went up to the knee and one pair that went all the way to my thigh. I thought those were a little much. Maybe if I was certain of my size. Ultimately, I selected a little boot that reached just to the ankle. They were black with open toes, with a big, blocky 4-inch heel. I chose them because they had them in my size and in a wide with. My sneakers were wide. I was certain my heels had to be as well. I picked them because they'd make me paint my toenails and sitting there, with Keanu Reeves avenging the death of his puppy on my television, that thought held my attention way more than the violent gunplay on the screen. The thought of it was so deliciously naughty. Once again, I was bemoaning the fact that deliveries were not made in an instant. John Wick ended while I continued browsing, my focus now on skirt and dresses. I made a few exploratory purchases. I went simple, your basic solids in colors that made more sense than jet and chalk. I ordered a trio of simple dresses. One blue, one black and one yellow, using the sizing charts to guess my size at around an eight or ten, or even a twelve. Three dresses in three different sizes. The ones that did not fit I'd drop off in one of those donation boxes I see around town. It gave me a silly little lopsided grin to think I might be a ten. I was aging well. I had a few wrinkles around my light green eyes. My hair was thick, a gift from my father. The color, light brown, the shade of wet sand, came from my mom. If this thing that had so enraptured me, this thing that didn't need labels, was to continue I'd have to either grow out my hair or buy a wig. That thought led to another link, which led to another. I wound up looking at wigs thinking every one of them looked fake. Maybe it was the way there were shown on web pages, mobs of hair in every color and style imaginable just looked plastic sitting on a mannequins decapitated head. Still, I did like a few of them. I ended up ordering only one; surprised at how expensive they were. The wig I ordered was permed with just a delicate curl at the shoulders. It was a deep burgundy, more brown than red, unless the light caught it exactly right. Abby always seemed to dye her hair with streaks of crimson in it. Maybe. No, maybe had nothing to do with it. I choose the color because it reminded me of Abigail. She had always been so stylish and coiffed. She didn't primp constantly; I think her style came naturally. Captain America was fighting Hydra when I finally turned the television off. If there was a movie between John Wick and Cap I could not say. Maybe there was. I turned off the laptop after putting another twelve-hundred-dollar dent in my credit card. It was a lot of money that was probably all going to go to waste. Still, it had been fun. Can you put a price tag on that? Didn't most people spend a fortune just to have a good time? Admittedly, shopping for dresses and heels, lingerie and wigs had been a blast. I brushed my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror. My stuffed bra looked uneven. I stood at the mirror, posing, pushing my fake breasts together with my arms. I cupped my boobs, offering them to my reflection like Rafiki had presented little Simba in the Lion King. My smile caught my eye. I had missed it. My smile had faded when Abby had left - when I had driven her away. Seeing it now felt good, like I was welcoming a long-lost love back into my life. I went to bed wearing that same sad smile. (ii) Sunday was a repeat of Saturday. The only difference was what I watched on TV, and what websites I visited. I got up, grinning at my lopsided breasts. One side was still stuffed with socks, the other had lost its load, leaving me leaning like a car with two flat tires. I hurriedly grabbed the socks littering my bed and refilled the cup of my bra. I puffed up both cups, enjoying the tight grip around my chest and the strap rising over my shoulders. My hands caressed my nylon clad legs, savoring the electric tingle I felt, both where my fingers caressed the nylon and the upper part of my thigh now devoid of hair. It was so overwhelming that my hand snaked into my panties to take care of that part of me overly enamored by the silky softness that caressed it. Sated and breathing heavily, one sock now missing from my bra, I started my day with a trip to the bathroom to clean the pipes, so to speak. I flushed the toilet before returning to my dresser to grab a clean sock to replace the one I'd just soiled. That dirty sock went into the hamper. I'd have to do laundry and after breakfast I'd have to do the dishes. Abby and I had not really shared in the household chores. I enjoyed cleaning, something else my father gave me from his time in the Army, and Abby had hated it. That thought became ensnared in my brain and as soon as I finished breakfast - a three egg omelet with cheddar cheese, crumbled bacon, and shitake mushrooms - I put the dirty dishes in the sink and raced to the computer. With my newfound fascination with lingerie, thanks to Abby's panties, and my fondness for cleaning, I had to combine the two. The thought had grabbed me like a snake sinking its fangs into delicate skin, unable to let go until the poison had been delivered. A few clicks of the mouse, even more letters in the search engine, and my eyes went wide. I was looking at maids' dresses. They had them in every color imaginable. I saw reds and blues, yellows, and pinks. There were satin dresses with huge, puffy petticoats. And simple gingham dresses with large shoulder straps. Some were more utilitarian than others but those didn't appeal to me. They didn't hold the same fascination as the skimpier, sexier ones. I spotted the saucy French Maids' costume replete with lacy hat, simple white apron, and frilly lace around the impossibly short skirt. Wearing that the tops of my stockings would be visible as well as the tiny clasps of my garter belt. My mouth grew dry just looking at it. I had to have one. I browsed over a dozen sites, unaware until that moment how many different stores existed for men to give in to their fantasies. I wasn't surprised, I had just been oblivious. I stumbled upon one site that made custom dresses, sewn to the perfect size. That was the one I wanted. I filled out the order form, putting in my neck size and my chest size. Every measurement imaginable. The ones I didn't know I was able to get with a piece of string cut to the length of whatever I was sizing, and the measuring tape from my three-car garage. The price was steep, as was the disappointing three week wait, but it would be worth it. I ordered extra petticoats in both black and white, not sure which I would like more but wanting to have a choice. I hesitated when it asked if I wanted to add a lock. The idea was interesting, to be locked into my dress. My arousal won out, so the lock was added. Even if I never used the lock, just the idea made me tingle. I kept browsing, my mind focused on the maids' dress. I'd barely placed the order and already I was hoping it would be delivered early. Unable to think of anything else I went to an earlier site and ordered the ready-made maid dresses. They'd arrive sooner. They may not fit as well but they would satisfy the itch that was already maddening. Satisfied, I pranced into the kitchen, already imagining I was the maid in my own house, tasked to make the kitchen spotless before the mistress of the house arrived from her long day managing tellers at the bank downtown. I did the dishes with a sway to my hips, a perpetual grin on my face. Maybe it was silly, but I was having fun. How long had it been since that happened? I did the dishes and after that I started laundry. While the first load was going, I decided to give the house a thorough cleaning, trapped in my maid persona. I gave each room ample attention, cleaning things I'd neglected for far too long. I dusted ceiling fans, wiped every flat surface, both horizontal as expected but vertical as well. I couldn't recall a single time I'd every washed the sides of my desk, but the outer edges and the two sides of the center section as well. By the time I was done cleaning, my back was sore, my hands red from the chemicals, and my house smelled every bit as good as it looked. Through it all, from mopping and vacuuming, to folding the towels and hanging my pants, my smile had not once drifted from my face. It wasn't until I went to bed, wearing a pink camisole with a pair of matching panties, that it dawned on me that for the whole weekend, from the time I left early on Friday until I was shutting my eyes on a decidedly delicious weekend that work had not entered my mind. Chapter 3 (i) The next morning, I wore panties to work for the very first time. Standing next to the pile of lingerie sitting atop my dresser - I was still too enamored to hide everything in a drawer - I stared at my pile of treasures, for that's what they were to me then. Treasures. Something worth guarding. Something worth protecting. Those tiny wisps of soft fabric had become important, not because of what they were, but because of what they did. They had somehow allowed me to detach my mind from work, giving me something deliciously naughty to focus on in lieu of the mundane. Now, running my fingers over my silky panties, I tried to decide which pair would be the ones I wore to work. And I wanted to wear them to work. Just the thought of having a secret hidden beneath my pants was arousing me in a way that made me miss Abby even more. Thinking of my ex-wife seemed to solidify my thoughts. I grabbed Abby's panties and pulled them up my legs. They were too tight so it was foolish to wear them but that was where my mind had gone. I settled Abby's panties into place, shifting my hips even as my breathing escalated. I shut my eyes and let out a long, languid sigh. I drove to work feeling the tight confines of those simple, slightly dingy panties. They were gripping me tighter than a miser holding onto a hundred-dollar bill. I pulled into the office, surprised that I wasn't the first to arrive. Even getting ready for work had allowed me to unclench a little bit. My employees were good, they did not need me to hold their hands, so why had I? Was the acquisition of money really that all-encompassing and if so, didn't the panties I was wearing disprove that very thought? Work was easy. Any problem that came was handled by my staff. I attended two virtual meetings, and during the second one, a pretty woman wearing a smart tan business suit gave her request to add Dallas as another hub. I listened politely, telling her that adding Dallas was easy and I'd be in touch once I heard back from management at DFW, but all the while I was wondering what panties she was wearing. I was wearing Abby's period panties. Was this woman wearing something similar, plain panties, stained from use, or was she wearing something sexy, something that matched her bra. That had to have been the shortest meeting I'd ever attended even as the clock lied and said it had gone on for nearly two hours. I ordered pizza for the office for lunch, giving Alice a surprise. "You're eating lunch?" "We all are," I said. "It'll be here by noon. Please send an email to everyone letting them know." Alice raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I was feeling okay. "Sure will." She smiled. "Thanks." The workday ended and I left, not first, but more importantly not last. I drove home, and instead of stopping for a sandwich I opted to have a nice steak dinner from a local chain steakhouse that originated in Texas. I waited ten minutes for a seat at a half-booth. I ordered a ribeye - medium rare - with mashed potatoes and asparagus. I nibbled on a dinner roll slathered with cinnamon butter while sipping an icy sweet tea. On the television sets around the bar I could see the rundown on the NFL season. Normally the scores would hold my attention but right then I was more interested in the fact that I wasn't still at work and that I'd eaten not only lunch, but an early dinner and something that wasn't wrapped in a piece of plain white paper. Dinner was great and by the time I got home I was ready to put on a bra and slide some stockings on my soft, hairless legs. I had my pants off before I reached the bedroom. My shirt found its way to my floor next to my bed. I grabbed a black garter belt, fastened it in the front and spun the clasp to the back. I donned a pair of silky stockings, trembling at the tender, electric caress. I affixed the garter belt to the stockings and then for fun I snapped the taut garter belt tabs. It reminded me of growing up with Jennifer and how, when she'd first started wearing a bra, I would run up behind her just to pull the back strap through her shirt, only to let it go, snapping it against her skin. Now I was doing that same thing to me. Jennifer had complained, begging my parents to make me stop. I wasn't complaining; I found the whole thing overtly erotic. Each time the tight elastic smacked into my thigh I'd twitch a little more, until my knees crossed, and I was breathing heavily. I took care of myself, causing my heavy breathing to become shallow as well. Sated, physically at least - my mind was still a flurry of erotic thoughts - I opened my laptop to continue shopping. Sitting in my little booth at the restaurant I had watched the other patrons as well as the waitress that had been buzzing from booth to booth and table to table. The waitresses had been wearing jeans so I could only imagine how they would look in skirts or dresses, but there had been a few patrons that had been dressed in more feminine attired. That was what appealed to me. Dresses. Summer had already dwindled to a recent memory; we were comfortably ensconced in Autumn, so sun dresses was something to look forward too, but the dresses I had seen while dining had fueled my desire to continue building my wardrobe. Still uncertain of my sizes I was only browsing styles and patterns. I spotted dresses adorned with orchids or tulips or some other bright, colorful flower. I eyed solids of every shape. I learned the difference between a shift and a sheath and decided I wanted both. I bookmarked two dozen pages, disheartened that I shouldn't place another order until my first order arrived. I had a lot of money and while I could afford to order the dresses even if it were to just throw them away, I felt guilty doing that. Waiting, while disappointing, was the right thing to do. By the time that first order of dresses arrived I would know my size and then I could go shopping with all the focus I had always given my job. Maybe Abby was right, maybe I was an all-in kind of guy. If so, why had I not given Abby my all? Why had she been the one I'd diminished, putting work above all else, causing her to fall aside piece by piece until she had to walk away. The shame of it all, a reality that still saddened me, that even as she was leaving, after I'd broken her heart at a snail's pace, I had been thinking about work. It took about a dozen snaps of my garter belt straps against my denuded skin to bring a grin back to my face. "I'm sorry, honey," I said to the empty room, my frown quick to return, and glacial to replace. I stopped browsing dresses as a new thought rushed into my brain. If I knew my size, why couldn't I just go to the mall and buy a dress? Would that be fun? Scary? Both? Should I get dressed and head to the mall. Would I'd disappear into the countless swarm of shoppers? Become a faceless blob in a crowd or would I be spotted, deciphered, and ridiculed? The idea of shopping was appealing but I wasn't ready for that. Yet. That last thought made me grin. Could I make myself presentable? Make it so that anyone giving me a passing glance wouldn't see me as me, but as a woman? The idea was intoxicating, and it led me down a longer, deeper, rabbit hole. I began browsing makeup tutorials on the YouTube. It felt weird learning not only what foundation was but how to apply it by a young, teenaged girl. There wasn't anything sexual in my efforts, but it still felt a little uncomfortable to search for make up tricks only to find a young girl, no more than fourteen teaching how to perfectly blend makeup to hide your blemishes. Feeling icky, I refined my search, now watching professional women who did makeup for movies teach me the same thing. That didn't make me feel like a pervert. Without makeup of my own, I watched a few videos, subscribed to a few pages, then went about ordering my own mascara, eyeliner, blush, lipstick, lip gloss, foundation. I chose palates full of colors from tan and cream to blue and green. I picked eyeline pencils with tips that was as fine as a needle to as broad as dump truck and every size in between. On the recommendation of the video presenter, I went with high dollar, high quality makeup. "You don't want your makeup to clump," my teacher had said. "Quality makeup will last longer and look better." After placing my newest order, I went back and watched a few more videos. Using a Q-tip from the bathroom I practiced adding eye shadow. I wasn't adding any color to my eyelids; I was practicing the strokes needed, doing my best to ape the movements of the woman on my computer screen. I could not visualize if what I was doing was right - I'd need some color for that - but it seemed helpful in getting my hand and arm used to the motions. Later in the week, after my newest order arrived, I'd try again. And, given time, I would succeed. (ii) The first of my orders were waiting for me when I got home from work on Wednesday night. There were four boxes sitting on my front step, one small, the others a bit larger. I carried everything into the house before stripping down to the yellow panties I was wearing. The night before, on a mad crusade, I had thrown out all my boxers and briefs. The panties had so enraptured me that I had decided that I would wear them exclusively. It wasn't like I was removing my pants for anyone and the naughty thrill I felt, sitting in my office, wearing silky panties with lace trim had not diminished. If cornered I would say that life was easier now that I was wearing panties. I still came to work early, I just no longer cared if I was first and if I was the last to leave, that was fine, but if not, well, that was fine, too. How that simple fabric held such power wasn't something I pondered. Truthfully, who cared how the medicine worked if the treatment was successful? The panties let me unwind by letting me focus on something else. They helped distract me from the stress of running my very profitable business, so what harm could they be? I opened the small box first. It was the faux breasts affixed to a clear plastic harness that was almost like a bra. They breasts felt heavy. I was a little disappointed; they did not have the bounce that I had hoped for, but they would fill out my bra. Standing naked save for my panties I worked my arms through the open straps and pulled the bottom ring around my chest. I tugged, pulling everything into place. I stood there wearing my fake boobs. The harness held everything in place. I jumped, hoping to see my breasts jiggle. They did, slightly, though they settled into place quickly. I cupped my breasts, holding them with my hands. I tweaked the fake nipples, finding the exercise to be both silly but fun, too. I walked into the bedroom and opened my new lingerie drawer, the same drawer that had held my boxers and briefs, but now held panties and bras. I grabbed a bra and put it on. The bra elevated my breasts, hoisting them higher. I guess that's what bras did. My bra didn't take the weight of my breasts, the harness did that well enough. Back in the kitchen I opened the next set of boxes. My dresses had arrived. Nine dresses in three different packages. I sorted the dresses by color, putting the three blue dresses together. The black dresses went into their own pile. Because I was wearing yellow panties, I opted to try a yellow dress first. I grabbed the largest one, figuring if it fit that would be fine, but if not, if it was too big, it would be easier to doff. I shimmied into the dress. The waist was a little loose, but my faux breasts fit perfectly. I reached behind me only to struggle with the zipper. How many times had Abby asked me to "zip her up?" Hundreds? Thousands? Now I needed a free hand to help hoist my own zipper into place. I bent at the waist, pulled the dress half over my head until I could find the zipper, then dropped the dress again as I zipped myself up. There had to be an easier way. Maybe it only took practice. That sounded fun. With the dress now zipped, I looked down. The dress covered my breasts fully, hiding that they were fake. My figure looked good. Skipping all those meals had left me skinny. The hem of the simple dress reached my knees. I swayed from side to side just to watch the hem of my dress wave like a flag on a windy day. I felt myself stirring in my panties with the pure adrenaline of arousal. I walked into the bathroom to eye myself in the mirror. I could just see the strap of my bra beneath the thin fabric of my lovely yellow dress. The dress fit, though I thought it was maybe a little loose. Maybe I needed to try the size ten. No, I amended my thought, casting maybe aside. I wanted to try the next dress. I wanted to try them all. I learned something. Just because two dresses are the same size does not mean they are the same size. In the yellow dress I needed the size ten. Both the black dress and the lovely blue one with delicate lacy trim I needed the twelve. Is that why women try everything on? Was the little tag telling the size a guideline and not etched in stone? In my jeans I wore the same size, the waist did not change from one manufacturer to another so why did it seem that my new dresses didn't follow that same law? I suddenly wanted to go shopping even more. Staring at my face in the mirror I knew I wasn't ready for that. I looked very feminine from the neck down. My legs looked good; my breasts popped, but my face and hair were all mine. My brown hair was short and just a tad messy at the neck. I wasn't wearing any makeup and until I had my wig and I was good at doing my face, I would have to be content to wearing my new dresses over my new panties and my new, fake boobs. I sat down to watch ESPN, grinning as I ran my hand over my ass to smooth my dress as I sat. My eyes kept glancing down, at my upturned breasts, at my bare legs sneaking from beneath the lacy hem of my dress. The only thing missing were heels but they would be here soon. I gave up watching the highlights of the day. That the Vikings traded away their all-star outside linebacker to the Seahawks held no fascination. The only thing I could concentrate on was the way my legs looked and how the hem of my dress seemed to caress my knees in a most appreciative manner. I turned off the television and returned to my laptop. I browsed for more dresses. I wasn't sure I wanted more, but before I went to bed, I had added another three dresses to my shopping cart and twice as many skirts. I couldn't help myself, but what had started out so innocently had somehow morphed into something increasingly erotic. I found a purple plaid mini skirt that would barely cover my ass. Of course, I had to add a white blouse and a tiny tie made of the same purple plaid. It was the sexualized costume of a schoolgirl and I couldn't wait to wear it. I was certain that no one would every see me wearing it. But that was before I met Theresa. (iii) By Friday, every order I had placed had arrived save for the custom- made maid costume. My schoolgirl outfit was waiting for me when I arrived home on Friday night. For the fifth day in a row I had not been the last to leave. As I was starting my weekend, Alice gave me an appreciative nod. "Who is she?" Alice asked. "Who? I don't understand." She lifted her eyebrows to say she doubted me. "You've left earlier than ever this whole week," she said. She wasn't chiding me. She sounded genuinely happy, "so you've must've met someone. What's her name?" Theresa was still a few weeks off. "I haven't met anyone," I said. "I've just decided to take some time for me." "Well, good," she said. "See you Monday." I wished her well and left the office, but her words stuck with me. "Who is she?" Alice had asked. Well, there was a new woman in my life and that woman was me. Well, I wasn't a woman and I had no desire to be one, but every day I'd race home, sometimes stopping for a deli sandwich, other times opting to order a small pizza just to nibble on a piece or two. The rest of the time I was practicing with my new makeup, adding color to my eyes, fluffing my eyelashes with a little curved stick, or tasting lipstick, finding the weight of it oddly enticing. I still wasn't as good as the dozen or so teenagers I was learning from, but I was getting better. When I started my foundation had looked as thick as spackle before the trowel was run through it. Now I was able to blend the cool liquid seamlessly. My lipstick started smeared and now when I blotted my lips against a piece of toilet paper the way Abby used to do, my lip prints came back without a trace of excess. I was able to use multiple shades on my eyelids now, blending blues and greens into a lovely third color that seemed to make my own eyes pop. It was time consuming and it was fun. Friday, when I pulled into the driveway, the rest of my boxes were waiting on me. My heels had finally arrived. I had been looking forward to them the most. I ferreted everything inside and before doing anything else, before peeing, before turning on the television to hear about Jacksonville sitting their starting quarterback in lieu of losing, before grabbing a cold drink from the refrigerator, I was stripping down to my lingerie. I'd worn blue today, liking how everything felt, but loving the contrasting color against my skin. I was wearing a garter belt and stockings, too, loving how the stockings felt on my denuded legs and loving the tight pull of the garter belt straps against my thighs. I found myself crossing and uncrossing my legs constantly as my day progressed. How had I missed this all these years? Standing in my kitchen in nothing but my panties, garter belt and stockings - Abby?s panties were washed and folded in my panty drawer now - I started to open my newest treasures. I had a panty drawer, another drawer for bras and a third for my camisoles. The only thing masculine remaining in my dresser was a drawer full of socks, everything else had been replaced by my newer, more enticing hobby. With these new boxes even my socks may need to be relocated. I opened the first box. A pair of heels stared back at me. I hoped they fit but I still wasn?t ready to try my luck shopping out in public. I wasn?t trying to embarrass myself or make a mockery of women. I was just being me, enjoying what I had stumbled into. I wanted to go out in public, but I?d only do that when I thought I looked enough like a woman that I wouldn?t receive derision, mocking, or hatred. Those things would stifle my growing fascination with everything feminine and undo these past few days. I examined the shoes. They were black with a pointed toe. A single strap wrapped around the ankle to buckle onto a golden latch. Another strap ran across the top of my foot. The heel was three inches, not horribly big, but larger than anything I?d ever worn before. Holding onto the center island, I put my foot in the shoe. Thanks to my stockings, my foot slid in easily. I leaned against the island and buckled the heel in place. I shifted and donned the other shoe. I stood there, wobbling slightly on my new heels, staring at the pointed toe and the strap running across the top of my foot. It was invigorating and it took a considerable effort to keep my hand out of my panties. That would come later. I walked across the kitchen, listening to my heels clicking against the tile. The sound gave me goosebumps and I my throat tightened in arousal. I kept walking, gaining confidence with every step. At first my ankles felt like they wanted to collapse inward but after a few minutes, each moment punctuated by the tremendous sound of my heels tapping against the floor, I was able to move easily around the room. I wasn?t graceful, that would take practice, but I didn?t think I was going to tear a muscle in my leg or break a bone in my ankle. And I was hooked. The panties and stockings were amazing; I loved them, but the heels were on a whole new level. The way they made my legs look, the way they sounded as I clip-clop-clipped across the floor. The way they gave my hips a seductive, playful sway, all of it together had me as addicted as a junkie on crack. Suddenly I wanted more heels. I wanted to wear them everywhere. I?m sure it was the novelty of it, but that thought was overpowered by the sheer emotion of finding something so enamoring that you could think of nothing else. But I had other things to think of. I had other boxes waiting to be opened. Other treasures to find but instead of digging on a hidden X, marked only by a cryptic map, I only needed a pair of scissors and the ability to stop gliding across the floor just to hear my heels sing against the tile. I opened the next box. It was my schoolgirl outfit. It was naughty. It was indecent. And I needed to try it on. I started with the purple plaid skirt. I stepped into it, holding onto a counter for support. I pulled the skirt up my legs. It fit fairly well and when I zipped the back it fit even better. The skirt was short, it did not quite cover the tops of my cobalt blue stockings. Glancing down I could see the little plastic tabs where my garter belt attached to the stockings. How much of my garter belt was visible when you looked straight on? How slutty was I? I trembled in arousal. I wasn?t wearing a bra or my breast forms, so I needed those before I tried on the white blouse that went with my outfit. I sashayed into the bedroom, loving how my heels sounded on the tile, loving how the hem of my pleated tiny skirt floated as I walked and how it tickled my thighs with each mincing step. I licked my lips only to realize I couldn?t taste my lipstick; I would need that, too. I opened my dresser drawer, my lingerie now put away. I had kept everything out at first, enjoying the sight of those frilly, feminine things watching me as I slept but as the week had progressed, and more and more things had arrived, I had bagged all my boxes and thrown them away to make room for my panties and bras, garter belts, stockings, camisoles and two soft nightgowns, one in pale pink, the other in a light green, the color of lime sherbet. I put on my breast form harness and then added the bra that matched my panties. It was dark blue, with black lace decorating the top of the bra cups. I donned the bra and marched back into the kitchen. I buttoned the tiny white shirt in place, all the way to the full, rounded Peter Pan collar. Sadly, I couldn?t button the top button. The shirt stopped well above the waistband of my skirt, leaving a few inches of midriff bare. My breasts seemed huge now hidden behind my shirt, like the shirt magnified them somehow. I loved the illusion. The plaid tie came next. I tied it around my neck, tucking it beneath the collar of my sexy little shirt. Dressed, I raced to the mirror to stare at my outfit. The skirt was shorter than I thought, leaving a good two inches of bare thigh revealed, the shaven skin only marred by the vertical strips of my garter belt. The shirt was tight, my fake breasts pushing at the buttons. The tie stopped just shy exposed belly button. God, I looked like a tart. And I loved it. Unable to control myself any longer, my hand went under my skirt and into my panties. I did what I did, enjoying myself far too quickly. I finished in the sink, loathe to soil my skirt or my lingerie. With the sink rinsed clean I started on my makeup. My laptop was sitting in the bedroom but with the practice I?d had, I thought I wouldn?t need it. Besides, with how I was dressed, maybe having my makeup done a little too heavily would make sense. I did my face, starting with my foundation. I painted my lips a deep cherry red. I added purple eyeshadow next, matching the color of my skirt. My mascara filled my eyelashes, making them pop. A little bit of color went on my cheeks. It wasn?t perfect. Not even close, but it was passable. From my eyes down I looked like a saucy, slutty, walking wet dream. Only my hair and the rising tent in my skirt broke the illusion. I needed to do something about both. My wig was sitting in a box in the kitchen, but how could I control the part of me that was making this so much fun? The smile that had appeared from the moment I saw the boxes sitting on my front step had magically grown bigger. I had something else to research. Those searches lately had been fun. And expensive, but that, too, was part of the fun. I never spent money; I had only been focused on earning it. I swayed into the kitchen, looking for my wig. I opened one large box and found a maids? outfit. I ran my fingers over the stiff fabric. It wasn?t the wig, but I would be visiting it soon enough. The next larger box held my wig. I pulled the wig from the box. The hair was mostly red, maybe a bit lighter than dried blood. There were a few lighter streaks in it. The hair wasn?t as soft as I would have liked but it was what I had. I carried the wig into the bathroom. In preparation, I had, of course, watched videos on how to don a wig. I did not own any bobby pins yet, but since I wore my hair short that wouldn?t matter much. I bent at the waist, settled the wig against my scalp, and popped upright, sending the long, wavy hair backwards over my shoulders. The effect was dramatic. There, in the mirror, was a slutty Catholic school girl with a bit too much makeup on her face. My cheeks were red, not from the blush I had added but from the excitement I felt. In the right light, maybe a dark street, or an equally dim club I might just pass as a real woman wearing a erotic costume and not a man. Sure, there were some things that would give me away. My Adam?s apple, the faint stubble around my chin, but overall, I thought it was a great facsimile. With practice I could probably make it even better. A choker or a few necklaces could disguise my throat. I could have shaved closer and added more foundation, but I had been too excited to open the boxes that I had not taken time for that. Not that it mattered. I wasn?t going out dressed as I was. Yet. I walked around the house, enjoying the way my tiny pleated skirt caressed my legs with each flouncy step. I ran my fingers through my hair. I played with my hair, making tiny coils with my hands. I sat on a chair and practiced crossing and uncrossing my legs, growing more aroused as my stocking clad legs slid against each other. It was all too much, too overwhelming, and once again, even though I was at an age where I did not reload so quickly, I found my hand under my skirt and inside my panties. It did not take long to finish but I was so on edge, so excited, that I couldn?t hold back if I wanted. And I didn?t want. Sated and breathing heavy, I went back to the boxes. I pulled my maid?s dress from the box. It was black with white trim. It had a white silk apron that tied in the back and a pair of petticoats, one black and one white, that when I pulled them from the box they puffed like the tail of a frightened cat. I hung the petticoats and the dress on a hanger, knowing that when I cleaned my house in the morning I?d be dressed as a proper maid. Suddenly I was glad I ordered the good one with the locks. The thought of it sounded decidedly kinky. Ideas ran through my head of hiding the key in my mailbox, forcing myself to mince, my heels slapping loudly against the concrete, to the end of the driveway, knowing that I was out in the public eye. It sounded terrifying and I couldn?t wait to try it. I opened the rest of the boxes. I hung my new dresses, skirts, and blouses. I had to take some suits and carry them into a separate closet in the spare bedroom. It never even crossed my mind to use the spare bedroom for my dresses and skirts. Those somehow took precedence. They needed to be close. I hung my suits in the spare bedroom so that my new dresses could be in the master closet. Seeing the clothing hanging there reminded me of Abby. Before she left, starting my heartbreak long after she had nearly finished hers, her dresses had taken most of the closet, and now my dresses, skirts, and blouses was doing the same thing. My maid?s dress I hung on the lone hook behind the closet door. I would need it in the morning. I spent the rest of the evening browsing for ways to make the illusion better. I had a lump in my panties that I needed to hide. I learned about tucking and gaffs. The gaffs seemed interesting and if the photos were accurate, they would do what I needed them to do. I studiously examined everything I could fine before ultimately ordering what were basically panties with a pouch for that curious part of me. The panties were snug, almost like a girdle. The thick spandex and confining pouch would hold myself down and prevent any unwanted appearances. It sounded both uncomfortable wildly exciting. I moved to the bedroom where I removed my little schoolgirl outfit, hanging it in the closet with my other dresses. Seeing it intermixed in with my newest treasures, and those all combined with my remaining suits, lit a fresh fire under me. Wearing nothing but my bra and breast forms, my panties, garter belt and stockings, I made another dozen trips from the master bedroom to the spare ones on the other side of the house. Load after load I carried my suits, slacks, t- shirts, and ties to the spare bedrooms until the master closet was left looking more than half empty. I had carried every masculine piece of clothing I owned out of my bedroom, leaving only my dresses, skirts, and blouses behind. It was obvious I needed to do some more shopping, but I wanted that to be out, in the real world. I wasn?t quite ready for that, but it was a goal that would be fun to achieve. After my clothes were ferreted away, I did the same to my shoes until only my new heels sat alone on the carpeted floor. I definitely needed more heels. The black ones I had were sexy, but I wanted more. I wanted higher heels, I wanted simple flats. I even wanted a pair of women?s sneakers, wondering if I could wear them as myself just to see if I?d get away with it. I was already wearing panties to work, what else could I wear just to see if anyone noticed. What would happened if I replaced my normal working shoes with a pair of simple black flats? Would Alice notice? Would anyone? And why did I want to try? I crawled under the covers still wearing my lingerie. My legs tingled in their stockings. Normally I slept on my stomach, but my breasts, jutted proudly beneath my bra, didn?t have the give as real breasts so I found myself lying on my back, my breasts sitting atop my chest, demanding to be seen. And they were hard to miss. (iv) I awoke Saturday morning feeling energized. My legs, still clad in the stockings from the night before, felt amazing. One breast had popped out of my bra. Had Abby ever had the problem. I suppose she had. Probably all women did. It made me grin that I did, too. I stripped off my lingerie and my breast forms to take a shower. I washed my hair, my body, and my face. I took my time and shaved my legs again. Then I kept going. I shaved my armpits, then my arms for the first time. I shaved my chest, being extra carful around my nipples. I shaved my crotch, leaving me fully denuded from my nose down. Stepping out of the shower the room felt even colder than before. I had noticed it with my legs when I shaved them a few days earlier, but now, with no hair at all, the room was damned near arctic. Is that why women were cold all the time? Was it because they were missing a layer of insulation? I washed my breasts before donning them anew, working the clear plastic band over my shoulder. As I pushed my arm through the gap, the straps ripped, flopping my right boob down against my stomach. "Shit," I said, my grin replaced by a disappointed frown. Frustrated at the delay, I made my way to the kitchen. Using a pair of scissors, I carefully cut the straps away from the breast forms until only the twin breasts remained. My bra would have to hold them up. I made a mental note to browse for some better boobs. The clear straps had been a fine idea, but they hadn?t held up to much use. If this new hobby was to keep going, I would need something better. The thought of shopping returned the smile to my face. I put on black stockings and attached their lacy tops to the tabs of my garter belt. I pulled a new black thong and settled it into place, tucking myself as best as I could. I put on a black bra, this time filling the cups with the now standalone breast forms. The bra held them but without the clear straps they seemed to move too much. The wobble was more than nice, it was fun, but the to me they didn?t fit exactly right. At one time they were spread to far apart and at another it felt like they were about to pop out of my bra. I amended the mental note to not only browse for new forms, but to actually order some. Some good ones. I stepped into my heels, whistling a happy little song I?d once heard as a kid while vacationing in Disney World. I was in my own small world and I was having a ball. It was time for some more fun. I grabbed my maids? dress. I stepped into it, wobbling slightly as I stood on one heel. I pulled it up my legs, trembling in excitement. I licked my chapped lips, failed to swallow the lump that was growing in my throat, then swallowed again. Better. I worked my arms into the dress then using the same trick as before I pulled the back of the dress halfway over my head to grab the zipper, then zipped myself up while sliding the dress back down. It was a little tight in the waist and even tighter at the chest. My boobs seemed to pop out of the thing. I followed the dress with a poufy petticoat, the white one I?d opened the night before, just to add a splash of contrasting color. With the dress zipped up, I added the lacy apron. Stepping into the bathroom I gasped. I was a maid. My face needed makeup and I had to add my wig, but from the waist down I was the epitome of every slutty French Maid I?d ever seen or video, be it mainstream or pornography. I was a slut; I was a maid; I was turning myself on. Hurrying, wanting to see it all, I made up my face. I added too much color and did not blend as well as I should have, but I did a passable job. I added color to my face before donning my wig. Stepping back, the illusion was complete. I looked like a tall woman. Only by studying myself could I belie the transformation. My Adam?s apple was too prominent, and my arms looked a little too big, but other than that I was almost certain that anyone seeing me and giving naught more than a passing glance wouldn?t consider anything amiss. And wasn?t that the goal? To go shopping? To go out and blend and not be ridiculed. I wasn?t looking for humiliation. I was just having fun, discovering a new fetish, and jumping in both feet, uncaring how far the dive was or how deep the icy water below. Now, dressed as a maid it was time for me to do my duty. The duties of a maid. Sure, the outfit was far to decadent and impure to do any true work, but that didn?t stop me. I started with dusting every horizontal and vertical surface I could find. I stopped whistling and started humming, some songs were well known, others known to very few. The songs didn?t matter. There was music in my heart, and I had to let it out. Music caused by my newfound hobby. I did my housework, the office not even a fragment of a thought. I dusted the ceiling fans, uncaring that my feet were starting to hurt. I swept and mopped the floors, savoring the sound my heels made even as my toes began to complain. I vacuumed the bedrooms and the closets, missing the sounds as my feet hurt even more. I wasn?t used to heels. Standing in them I felt where they pinched. My ankles stung; my toes screamed, but I kept my heels on. I would get used to them in time. My house was spotless by the time I finished cleaning. I had two runs in my left stocking and three in my right, caused from when I?d knelt at the tubs to scrub them. It was the first time I?d ever damaged a pair of stockings. Abby had always carried a new pair of pantyhose in purse. I finally understood why. My maid?s outfit was soiled, and it gave me a perverse thrill to have to clean it as well. I stripped off the sexy parody of a maid?s outfit, and after checking the instructions on how to clean it, I put it in the washing machine. As instructed, I used cold water and a delicate spin. While it was washing, I changed my stockings, wincing a little as I once again put my heels on my feet. In place of my maid?s costume, I put on another new dress. This one was a deep burgundy color, like merlot spilled on a white carpet. It was stretchy and ended just above my knees. I liked how it hugged my fake curves and the elastic helped hide that most tell-tell part of me. I touched up my makeup, taking the time I should have taken in the morning, smoothing the clumps and blending the colors. I thought I was getting surprisingly good at applying makeup. It was a skill I had never realized I wanted until I began to learn it. I had worked through lunch, so I made an early dinner, grilling a piece of salmon and steaming some broccoli. I had to sit far too often because of how much my feet hurt but not wanting to remove my heels. When the washing machine buzzed, I took the dress out and hung it to dry. I loved how it looked. And before doing the dishes, I was back online shopping for more maid?s dresses. I was looking for real maid?s dresses now, not the overly sexual one I?d worn during the day. I wanted one that true domestics wore. Ones that were designed to get dirty because of the toil done while wearing them. It didn?t take long to find what I wanted. Less than twenty minutes after I began my search, I had four maid?s dresses with all the accessories ordered and on the way. Whistling as I did the dishes, I had the passing thought that I was in the wrong line of work. Maybe I should have been a maid. It was the only thought of work I had all weekend. Chapter 4 (i) The next three weeks were surprisingly productive. Having an outlet in the evening to help me unwind, and equally distracting weekends, allowed my batteries to recharge in such a way that work stop being a chore and once again became something to cherish. Two additional regional airlines reached out, wanting us to help upgrade their entire flight plans and a third phone call, this one from Delta directly meant I would have to hire additional staff. In the span of a month I had gone from a shattered man focused solely on work, to a man that left on time, with additional employees to not only help with the new business but I hired an additional manager to take some of the more pressing matters off my plate. Work was no longer the only thing I lived for. It was still fun, and the profits were steadily rising, but now the time at the office was balanced with time spent at home mincing about in a growing number of dresses and higher and higher heels. Life was fun again. There was a balance now, with work on one end of the scale and time away, pursuing my newfound hobby on the other. I was getting good with makeup and I could walk in my lowest heels with nary a wobble. I no longer thought I would break an ankle and while my feet still hurt when I wore my heels for more than a few hours it was the kind of hurt that work out aficionados call a good pain. Life was good. It was about to get better. (ii) I met Theresa on a Friday night. It was the second time I had gone into public dressed as a woman. The first time I ran to a local Walgreens to buy some tampons. I didn?t need them but I had read that all women carried a few spare tampons in their purse so when I was looking to fill my new purse ? I had three of them now with one more on order ? I did my research. My purse was full of makeup, tampons, one container of breath mints and a small cylinder full of pepper spray. I bought the tampons as a diversion. I was a man dressed as a woman. The tampons were soft of a shield, a beard, if you will. What man would make such a feminine purchase? The tampons were as much a part of my disguise as the dress, the wig, and my new, bouncy, heavy, and very expensive breast forms. I?d gone into the store feeling my pulse racing with the speed of a Nascar pit crew. The overhead lights had been impossibly bright, like they were looking at me in judgment. My heels seemed to echo in the cavernous store, calling even more attention to myself. I kept my head down, staring at the flowers on my dress, barely seeing over the mountainous swell of my faux breasts. I was certain that the few shoppers there were looking at me. How could they not in these lights? My mouth had never felt so dry. I trundled down one aisle after the next, far too nervous to look up and read the signs advertising the contents of each row. When I found the tampons, I didn?t know what type I needed. I hadn?t even realized there were different types. I grabbed a box at random, hating myself for being in the store and loving where I was. I was terrified. I was exhilarated. I cycled between wanting to run to the safety of my car and spending a few extra minutes looking at the makeup. When I finally settled on looking for a few new tubes of lipstick it felt like I?d won a war I hadn?t even been aware I was fighting. To my little hand held cart I added three tubes of lipstick, their colors a bit darker than I had at the house, a compact mirror, and a palette of eyeshadow that was somehow too light and too dark at the same time. The colors seemed to shimmer with some underlying phosphorescence that had me mesmerized. Everything seemed more vibrant. Every color was brighter; every sound more distinct and louder than the one before. I could smell the cleanser used to mop the floors and the bottles of perfume labeled "tester." It was at once overwhelming and I relished it. I felt alive in a way I had not felt since the day Abby and I wed and in the short limo ride to the reception we had consummated our marriage in front of the limo driver and the countless motorists in the cars that surrounded us. At the checkout stand the young black girl, an apathetic smile on her face, didn?t give any indication that she saw through my disguise. To her I was a fancy, middle-aged woman wearing a simple floral dress and black three-inch heels on my feet. "That?ll be forty-one-twenty- three," she said, barely looking at me. Did she not care that I was a man in a dress, or did I look enough like a woman that I didn?t need a second glance? Her indifference baffled me. I decided it didn?t matter. She didn?t cast a disgusted look at me and when she said, "thank you, ma?am," I took that as all the praise I needed. The second time out, the night I met Theresa, I went to a local gay bar. It was called The Color Rainbow. They had a website that said they were TG friendly and I was studied enough to know what TG meant and that I fit the bill. I figured it would be a safe place to test how well I looked in a place where I wouldn?t be mocked, judged, or ridiculed. I would be amongst similar people and there was comfort in conformity. Before heading out, I had spent a good long time getting ready. I took a long shower, shaving everything from stem to stern. It took nearly an hour to get my makeup perfect even though by then it was mostly routine. I did not want anything to give me away. Sure, I wasn?t going to full everyone, but the test was how many people would wonder? If one person was fooled then I thought it would be a good enough test especially since I would be amongst people there were used to seeing men in dresses, flamboyant or otherwise. I felt like a woman as I surveyed my closet, unable to decide on what to wear to my debut. I finally settled on a little black dress. Maybe it was clich?, but isn?t that what women wore when they went out on Friday nights? Would it help my disguise, or would it seem like I was trying too hard? Every decision I made, from what I wore, to the height of my heels, to the choker I wore around my neck, caused my head to spin. That was another purchase I had made. I bought necklaces and clip on earrings ? I was far too terrified to do anything as permanent as putting holes in my head ? bracelets, rings, and even a butterfly broach. In my research I learned that anything that took the eye away from imperfections were damned near perfect. To hide my Adam?s apple I bought some pearls, a thin golden chain with a small cross at the end, and a half dozen black, lacy chokers that stretched over my head. I liked them the most. They were eerily feminine and that seemed to suit my mood more than anything else. Leaving the driveway, I was wearing my little black dress and the same three-inch heels I?d worn on my first trip to Walgreens, figuring that they were now my lucky shoes. I hadn?t been made that first night so, like a baseball player working on a no hitter, I wore them again, figuring I would have the same streak of awesome angst-free avoidance. I had a simple black clutch purse that matched both my dress and the black lace choker around my throat. My makeup was flawless, or as perfect as my inexperienced hand could make it. The wig was coiffed, combed, and held in place by half a dozen bobby pins. Even with my critical eye I thought I was pleasantly passable. I stepped into The Color Purple. Purple Rain was ironically playing. The place was full of men and women and some crossdressers. I eyed the women more than the crossdressers, seeing if I could see through their ruse in the same way I was certain people would try to see through mine. I wasn?t looking to shame anyone; I was looking for pointers. Anything that could help me with the charade I presented. My goal of going shopping was still paramount. The thought of stealing into the women?s fitting room, not to ogle the other women, but to be accepted haunted my thoughts. Doing that successfully would be like finishing the ninth inning and seeing the scoreboard reading triple zero: no runs, no hits, no errors. I spotted men in dresses, with no effort made to hide their gender. One man had legs as hairy as a spider. Another man, this one sporting a poodle skirt and white blouse had fake breasts as large as watermelons. Those two were the parody extremes of women, not hiding who or what they were. They were there to have fun and from the crowd of people with them, they were succeeding. I heard laughter, and one joyous squeal over the sound of Prince. Focusing on the women in the place, my eye moved from one to the next. I spotted one woman dancing alone in the corner, sipping a bright green drink, the paper umbrella tucked into the hair above her left ear. A trio of women were at the bar, whispering conspiratorially, as they, too, eyed the crowd. Nine or ten couples were dancing on the dance floor. There were two women dancing together, their foreheads touching. A half dozen men were paired off, some dressed flamboyantly, others wearing the suits they?d worn to work, with only their ties loosened to indicate that they had begun to unwind from the day. I approached the bar. Prince was replaced by Queen Latifah, crooning how the lady was a tramp. The bartender gave me a nod, "what?ll you have?" I ordered a light beer. It seemed appropriate for how I was dressed. I pulled a ten from my purse and set it on the bar. "Keep it," I said. The trio of women eyed me. One of them gave me a smile. There was a softness in her gaze that soon became one of shock. Had she made me? Could she see that I wasn?t a woman, but a man who had spent the last month learning how to look like one? There was a dawning comprehension in her lovely blue eyes. She left her friends to approach me. "Do I know you?" It wasn?t much of a pickup line. Or maybe it was because two hours later I went home with her. "First time here," I said. "What?s your name?" It was hard to hear over Queen Latifah and when Elton John came on next it was even harder to hear. She tilted her head. "Theresa," she said, holding out a hand. I gave it a firm shake. "Lovely to meet you, Theresa," I said, hesitating at her name. "I?m..." I trailed off just long enough to add mystery. When I started to leave work early, Alice had asked, "who is she?" At the time I hadn?t given any thought to what name I would use when out and about. Over the last month I had digested a few names, sounding them out. My hobby was new, my name would be, too. I wanted it to start with a J. My name was John, my sister Jennifer. It was a scheme my mother used even though she never told me why. "Jordan," I finally said. "That?s a lovely name," she smiled. She stepped closer. I could smell her perfume and was certain at that distance she could smell mine. "You?re quite convincing," she whispered. So, I had been made. I was disappointed and only a little surprised. I had thought with the time I?ve spent working on my makeup that I wouldn?t have been discovered so quickly. But I was a man; I had more work to do. "Thanks." She introduced me to her friends. "We?re celebrating Carly?s divorce," Theresa said. "I?m sorry." "Don?t be," Carly said, raising her fruity concoction to the music ? Achy Breaky Heart ? "He was an ass." "Aren?t they all," I said. Theresa smiled. Carly said, "Damned right." The third woman, Marilyn, raised her glass in solidarity. The four of us chatted with Theresa spending the most time talking to me. She told me about her job working with the city to program traffic lights. "It?s a constant struggle, but I enjoy it. You can learn a lot about a city by the way its people move." I told her about my job but only briefly. "It?s funny," I said, revealing what I thought to be important, "work doesn?t mean as much as it did." She gave me an incredulous look, "don?t get me wrong, I?m good at it and I still like doing it, but I discovered," I ran a hand down my body to indicate what I was wearing, "a distraction of sorts and I learned that work is important but it isn?t the most important thing." I leaned in. Lady Gaga gave way to Eminem, "I?ve actually put in less than forty hours at work for the first time since my divorce. That?s unheard of." "Think it?ll stick?" I smiled, "no doubt. I?ve," I gave a shrug, "delegated." Mentioning divorce, Theresa asked, "The divorce? Was it her fault?" I started shaking my head even before she finished asking her question. "Mine. Foolishly mine." Theresa let it drop. She knew, as I did, that talking about your exes and divorce on a first date, even if it wasn?t a true date, wasn?t something that should be done. She was divorced, too, and I could tell by the way she spoke that she was still hurt. Maybe she had some lingering feelings for her ex as much as I did for Abby. The four of us danced, sometimes as a group, sometimes paired up. We were joined on the dance floor by a trio of raucous gay men, having the time of their life. Their laughter and joyful demeanor were infectious. I bought them drinks and even had a slow dance with a man for the first time in my life, learning how to be led instead of leading. Mostly I spent time with Theresa. She was warm, had a sharp wit that had me laughing at the most inappropriate things, her sense of humor matching mine, and she was achingly lovely. Her hair was a color halfway between red and brown that seemed to shine when it caught the light just right. Her eyes were the dark color of roasted almonds. When she smiled, her face lit up, like that of a child opening presents on Christmas day. When we danced, I could feel the warmth of her body and I felt my pulse quicken at the way she looked at me. There was a fire in that accepting gaze, one that shouted desire and familiarity all at once. Marilyn interrupted one dance, handing her empty glass to Theresa to refill her drink. "She?s been hurt before," she scolded, holding my hand in a vigorous grip. "I won?t let you hurt her again." We danced to Ariana Grande, but my focus wasn?t on the music or the lyrics, they were on Marilyn and the threatening compassion in her words. Had I ever had a friend like that? One that would stick up for me no matter what? Abby had been like that until I cast her aside for something far less meaningful. I nodded. "I won?t." Marilyn considered me then flashed me a smile. "Good." We danced until Theresa returned. Ariana yielded to Sia singing Big Girls Don?t Cry while Marilyn yielded Theresa. "You?re a good friend, Mary," I said as Theresa cut in. She gave me a nod, raised her fresh drink, then returned to Carly. Theresa was bright enough to know what happened and caring enough to let it drop. My esteem for both escalated. The night ended with a hug amongst friend and a quick peck on Theresa?s cheek. We made plans for a true date on Tuesday night. "Just a quick dinner," Theresa had said. "We both have work in the morning." "I can call in sick," I said. Her eyes went wide, then a smile crept onto her face. Nodding she said, "good to know, but I can?t." She made a noise of disgust, like finding a swarm of maggots crawling on your garbage can, "budget meetings." I laughed, gave her another quick peck. It wasn?t until I called Tuesday morning that I discovered, hidden amongst Theresa?s laughter, that when we made our date. Theresa wanted to meet John. (iii) We had dinner at a local seafood place serving fried catfish, blackened grouper, shrimp in just about every way Forrest Gump?s Bubba could imagine, and iced tea so fresh and crisp that it ought to be illegal. The key lime pie was good, but their banana pudding was heavenly. We were sitting in a booth, "someplace quiet," I had asked when we were seated. We were alone in the far corner of the restaurant. A single man was eating a piece of salmon two tables away. Country music was playing softly, Patty Loveless crooning about shackles and chains. Theresa was wearing a sharp dark blue business suit, the color of the deepest ocean. The jacket had short sleeves and only one button. She was wearing a cream-colored blouse and beneath it I could just make out the faintest tinge of her black bra. I found it fascinating that I wondered where she bought it. Did it come from Victoria?s Secret, or did she order it online like I did? We were escorted to a table where an attentive waitress took our orders. We made small talk, the way new couples did, not broaching the deeper, taboo subjects. She was feeling me out, searching for what I couldn?t say. The conversation stayed light until after our meal had been delivered. As the meal progressed, our topics became deeper, more meaningful. "How?s work getting on without you there so much?" she asked, taking another bite. I shook my head, "Good. It?s like they don?t need me there. I don?t know if that should make me happy or hurt my feelings. Business is good. Maybe better than it has ever been, and I?ve cut my hours, for, well, you know why." Theresa nodded but said nothing. "It?s like I?m more productive now that I?m there less. My ex used to tell me that would happen. ?John,? she?d say, ?you don?t need to be there so much. You?ll find work will be easier if you?re not there all the time.?" "We have meetings all the time, God, so many meetings, and once they city brought in a consultant to talk about the importance of having a life outside of work. They talked about burnout and put up graphs on how taking time away from work made work more productive. Guess you?re learning that." "I am." I took a bite of buttery scampi. "I wish I?d learned it earlier. I had a good teacher, but I was a lousy student." Theresa glanced around to make sure we were alone. "Tell me about Jordan." I loved how she had checked to see if anyone could hear before she asked, how shew was protecting my secret. My esteem for her, already high, grew another notch. "I keep a clean house." I laughed at that. "What?" Theresa asked, missing the joke. "I?ll get there," I said, picturing the hours I?d spent dressed as a maid in my own house cleaning what had already been cleaned just because I enjoyed the fantasy. I took a sip of my own tea. "One day I was cleaning behind the washing machine when I happened on a pair of panties. My ex called them her period panties. They weren?t special in any way. They were dingy. There was a huge dust bunny hanging onto them. I found them, feeling a wave of bittersweet sadness. Nostalgia?s like that, I guess. "I don?t know why but I put them on." Now I was the one looking around to make sure we were truly alone. "I?d never had any desire to wear panties before. I just wanted to be closer, well, the why of it doesn?t matter since I?m not sure myself. Something happened though. Wearing them was a little naughty and I?d had far too little of that. I liked them. A lot." I explained my fascination and my online shopping and how I?d set the goal of heading to the mall, dressed as Jordan. I explained how I wanted to go shopping in person instead of with the click of a noisy mouse. I told her about everything I ordered and how I?d spent hour after hour making up my face, only to wash the color away and start again. Practicing until I got it right. "My favorite thing must be my new maid?s dress. I had it custom made. It fits perfectly. It?s snug just about everywhere. At the neck there?s a pair of little metal gromets." I took another sip of tea before looking around again. Still safely alone, I continued, "and through those loops you can attach a little padlock, like one of those you put on luggage before letting the airline take your bag away." "You can lock the dress on? Why?" I gave a shrug and a smile, explaining my fascination with the lock. "The idea of it was exciting. Everything about my new, fetish I guess, has been thrilling. The first night I got the dress I was giddy with anticipation. The only other time I?d felt that way was at my wedding, right before they played the music that would send my bride down the aisle where I was waiting with my all our friends. I was breathless, wanting to try that dress on, but I had come up with an idea while I was waiting. "As soon as the dress arrived, I grabbed a brand-new luggage lock and carried the two keys to my mailbox that was right on the main road of my subdivision. It wasn?t that long of a walk, but that didn?t matter. I was excited, terrified, anxious, thinking I should stop my plan but unable to do so. I put the keys in the mailbox then raced back up the driveway. My hands were trembling as I put on the maid?s dress." I took another sip of tea. Theresa was staring with rapt fascination, caught up in my tale. Her eyes were wide and there was a smile playing with the corners of her mouth. She was no longer looking around. I held her focus. "It fit perfectly. I had been worried my measurements were off, and if they were it was miniscule. The dress was comfortably snug. It hugged my breasts. It was tight at the throat, but that was the point. It wasn?t supposed to be easy to remove with the top buttons done up. I pulled a petticoat in place. The skirt had been short before, stopping about mid-thigh. With the petticoats it became even shorter. The tops of my stockings were visible as were a few inches of my garter belt. In back, even the black lace of my ruffled panties were visible. It was obscenely decadent. And I loved it. "Before I could change my mind, I locked the dress on, putting the hasp through the two grommets and pushing the hasp home. The sound that lock made was deafening. The keys were in the mailbox. The only way to get them was to walk there, fully made up as a saucy, slutty maid." Theresa took my hand, her big eyes lighting her face. "Oh, God, that?s hot." "It was. It was all I could do to not..." I didn?t need to continue. Theresa?s nod let me know she understood what I left unsaid. "I cleaned a little, but my heart wasn?t really in it. Mostly I spent the time, waiting for the sun to set, mincing from one mirror to the next to look at myself. The skirt is so short. I bent over just to watch the skirt ride even higher. I looked like a slut and felt just as dirty. No, I felt filthy and I loved it. And with it locked on, I couldn?t take it off if I wanted to. Not then anyway. I had to wait until the sun went down. Well, I didn?t have to, but I wasn?t about to let my neighbors see me dressed like that." We talked some more and then shared the banana pudding. It was every bit as good as advertised. After dinner we went to a little dance club. Theresa and I danced some, shared a couple laughs and even more conversation. The hours raced by thanks to my delightful date. She kept touching my arm and didn?t pull away when I touched her. Those touches were tentative but promising. It was nearly midnight when I dropped her off at her apartment. "I had a good time," she said, the two of us standing in front of her door. She was squeezing my hand. Her cheeks were flush; her hair slightly disheveled by the cool breeze that kept the trees softly swaying, the leaves singing a serenade. "I?m glad," I said, before offering to take her out again. She shook her head but the smile on her lips didn?t fade. "No, John. My next date is with Jordan. I want to go shopping with her." I swallowed. "I think she?d like that." "Good." She surprised me with a kiss on the cheek. "I?ll pick her up on Saturday." "Okay." It was my turn. I gave Theresa an equally chaste kiss. Walking away I was awash with feelings. I had had an amazing night with an equally delightful woman. We shared much. Even as I drove home, feeling terrified that my goal of shopping as a woman was soon to be realized. I wanted it and Theresa wanted it. There was something tantalizing in how Theresa accepted Jordan. Theresa seemed equally as fascinated with this new part of me as I was. Was Jordan going to be around forever or was she a passing fancy? I had no way of knowing. Right now, it felt like she was a part of me, one that I?d never chase away. If that was the case, then having a woman that was accepting of her was more than I could hope for. I made it home and sent Theresa a text, thanking her for the lovely evening. She responded with a little yellow emoji blowing a kiss followed by a message about Jordan and their upcoming shopping trip. Theresa was going to have fun. With luck, I would too. Chapter 5 (i) The work week was a continuation of the week before. The job wasn?t any less stressful, but how I handled it was. I was more focused, more at ease. I was quick with a smile, or a joke, and slow to anger. I was able to delegate even more. Even with my reduced hours, the balance sheet continued to rise. Maybe there was something to having a life outside of work. Theresa had said that the city brought in experts to teach them that. Why had it taken me so dreadfully long to learn that simple little secret? Every afternoon as I left the office, Alice would give me a knowing smile. Once again, she asked, "Who is she?" I smiled before giving a noncommittal shrug. "I knew it. Good for you." Good for me indeed. (ii) Saturday morning, I woke up early. Theresa was due to pick me up at ten. I needed the extra time to get ready. Going out in public, dressed as a woman, was scary enough when it was dark out and you were amongst like-minded individuals, hiding in a darkened bar where music was playing so loud it made you squint. It was a far scarier situation to be out during the day, going where if you were made, you?d be shunned or ridiculed or even worse. You couldn?t be arrested for cross-dressing, but could you be thrown in jail for being a man hiding out in the women?s dressing room? Even as innocent as it would be, I could easily imagine the arrest, the trial, and the shame of being eternally branded a sexual predator. I had to be cautious. Going with Theresa would make it easier. Having an accomplice would make the shopping trip far less frightening. I showered and spent a good forty-five minutes shaving everything from top to bottom. I even shaved the tiny patch of hair on my big toes. With my body once again free of any stubble, I moved to the bedroom mirror, wiping it with the palm of my hand. I had my laptop open to the YouTube pages I?d saved in the off chance that I needed a refresher. I didn?t need any reminder; I was far too practiced now. Foundation, eyeliner, mascara, rouge, lipstick, lip gloss. I put it all on effortlessly. The makeup softened my face while adding a subdued splash of color. I knew I was a man, but my reflection was that of a woman that wasn?t beautiful but was cute enough to turn the eye of a guy. I wasn?t looking for that, but it was the best I could hope for. I chose my underwear next. I started with my gaff. I had three of them now. They held the biggest secret out of site, holding my penis down and back, leaving a nearly undetectable bump. They were too tight and fairly rigid, but they helped hold me in place no matter what dirty thoughts I was having. Next, I donned some black stockings. The stockings helped to mask my slightly knobby knees and they helped with my transformation. Every item of women?s clothing I wore was just another brick in the fa?ade I was building. A black garter belt held up the stockings. Black panties went on next. I chose a full bra that was a little tight. The tighter bra helped hold my breasts in place. I hadn?t yet sprung for the glue, but I was certain I would soon enough. The idea of seeing my breasts unfettered was eerily appealing. I pulled a black pleated skirt up my legs, zipping it behind my back. The skirt wasn?t terribly short ? it ended just below my knees. I liked the way it waved, like a pennant in a storm, when I swayed from side to side. A simple red blouse decorated with heart-shaped polka dots went on next. I clipped on some earrings ? getting my ears pierced was something else I had planned but hadn?t yet been brave enough to do. Two bracelets went on my left wrist. Three on the right. I put a simple golden chain adorned with an equally golden cross went around my neck. The accessories helped pull the eye away from imperfections in the transformation, giving an onlooker something to study instead of any inconsistencies they may spot. I ended with my auburn colored wig, settling it against my head and pinning it in place. I combed my faux hair, fluffing the slight curls at my shoulders. I stepped from the mirror, eyeing myself critically. I thought I looked good. The time I had spent practicing with my makeup evident in my reflection. I was a comely woman and I was probably my harshest critic. I glanced at the clock. Theresa was surely on her way. I picked up my newest acquisition. A bottle of perfume ? Bloom by Gucci. It was something else used to mask who I truly was. Most women didn?t leave the house without a fragrance wafting delicately from their skin and I would be no exception. I sprayed my wrists, before rubbing them together, then added another spritz to each side of my neck. Good enough. Or so I hoped. In the living room I set my purse by the front door, before pacing, waiting for Theresa to arrive. When I heard her pull up, I took a deep breath, bracing myself as best I could, before heading out to greet my date. She was dressed in a simple tan blouse with a single button at the throat and a pair of thin, black slacks. She wore a pair of cork wedges that somehow matched her blouse. She had small hoops in her ears and a lone onyx bracelet on her left wrist. "You?re went all out," Theresa said as she examined me in the bright sunlight. She eyed me, at first critically, looking for any flaws, anything that would point out that I wasn?t what I appeared to be. Then here critical eye changed, she started looking at me not to criticize but to analyze. "Just look at you." I knew how I looked. Since I found this, what - fetish, lifestyle, distraction - I lived in front of a mirror, learning all I could to get ready for what Theresa and I were about to do. "What do you think?" "I know you?re a man, but, if I didn?t," she shook her head, "I?m not sure I?d guess." Her voice was full of incredulous awe. That was the best praise imaginable. Theresa drove to Perimeter Mall, a large shopping complex anchored by Dillard?s, Nordstrom?s, Macy?s and Von Maur?s. They had dozens of stores catering to women?s fashions. Inside you could buy things from slutty to sexy, frumpy to fabulous. On the drive over, Theresa kept glancing at me, a grin on her lovely face. "I just can?t get over it," she said, "you look great." I felt my cheeks flush with color. "Thank you." We pulled into the mall parking lot, stopping outside of Macy?s. "Come on," she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "This is going to be great." And it was. At first, I was terrified, feeling that every lingering glance my way was full of scorn. I was sure that the domed security cameras were focused on my face and in some hidden back room, a horrid piece of computer software was displaying my undecorated face as well as my real name and sounding a klaxon demanding I be arrested at once. Theresa was there to reassure me, though. She offered me gentle smiles, tiny, comforting touches, and unfeigned praise. Slowly I began to ease up. I felt a smile come to my own face, tentative at first, then more often and for longer spans of time. As the morning progressed, I no longer looked away from other shoppers and I stopped worrying about the camera?s pointing down. I wasn?t there to steal. I was there to shop. And shop we did. Theresa would go from rack to rack, occasionally holding a shirt to her chest or a skirt to her hips. Mostly she would browse and call me over, holding similar items up for me. "This matches your skin tone," she would say, or, "this would look good on you," or, "what do you think of this?" She was having fun and her mood was infectious. She laughed when she pulled the top of my shirt down to check the size. "You could have just asked," I scolded, rolling my eyes, and laughing. "Where?s the fun in that?" We kept shopping. I matched Theresa?s actions, moving hangers along the metal bars to get a better look at the pattern on a blouse, or to touch the material to see how it felt against my skin. Theresa began filling her arms with skirts and blouses and dresses. When she got to the jeans she asked, "what size pants do you wear?" I answered with a shrug. "I don?t know." She grabbed a couple pairs of jeans that looked like they were far too small. "Come on," she said, her hand full of clothes. "Let?s see how these fit." My apprehension returned as Theresa led me to the changing rooms. Being out in the center of the store was one thing. It was safe. It was expected. It wasn?t illegal. I wasn?t a woman. Could I really go into the women?s dressing room? "It?ll be fine," Theresa said, sensing me reticence. "Trust me." I swallowed and followed. Theresa led me into a dressing room. There were mirrors on three sides and a long bench along the back wall. There were two hooks affixed to opposite walls. Theresa hung the skirts and dresses, draped the jeans on the bench and then, grinning, she stripped off her blouse, dropping it on the floor. She put a finger to her lips, hushing me with a grin, before unfastening her bra, revealing her lovely breasts to my appreciative gaze. Theresa lifted her eyebrows beckoning me to ape her actions. I needed no further encouragement. Before long we were both naked, Theresa surprising me by not wearing panties beneath her slacks, and not much after that we were both sated. Theresa had been prepared by supplying the condom beforehand and the wipes to clean up afterwards. "That was fun," I whispered, still working to keep from being heard. During our tryst, surprising to me, delightfully planned by Theresa, we had both worked to be mute, which somehow added to the act, as other shoppers walked past our dressing room to try on clothes of their own. If we were discovered there was no indication. We kissed again. When we separated Theresa watched as I once again donned my gaff. She was fascinated by it. "It helps keep me smooth," I said. Then pointing, "Down there." Theresa giggled. I donned my stockings and garter belt, put on my bra, and replaced my breast forms. I stood there, a man in lingerie, while Theresa started handing me clothes to put don. She started with the jeans. The first pair I couldn?t fasten no matter how I tried. The next size up fit, though barely. "There?s too tight," I protested. "No," Theresa disagreed. "They?re perfect." She eyed the front. "It?s uncanny," she said. "I know what?s there," she smiled at that, "but I can?t see anything." "That?s kinda the point." "Nobody would suspect anything," she said. "Having them a bit tight is probably better than a bit loose." I looked at myself in the mirror, turning from side to side. There wasn?t a lump in the front that I could see. The gaff kept me tucked and out of the way and the jeans compressed everything even more. Staring at my reflection I was flat in the front. Theresa was right. Anyone seeing me in those jeans wouldn?t think I was a man. How could I be when I was as flat as Kansas. I had to agree with Theresa. The jeans, though snug, helped conceal who I was. Wearing them would help with the illusion. We tried on countless things, taking multiple trips to our newly christened dressing room. We settled on two pairs of jeans, six skirts, two dresses, nine blouses and half a dozen new pairs of earrings ? the kind that would require holes in my ears. During the shopping expedition, we had to take a couple of trips to Theresa?s car just to drop off my newest swag before venturing into the mall again. We had lunch at Red Robin. Theresa ordered a chili burger with extra jalapenos. "No onion," she said, giving me a wink. I ordered a burger with avocado and an over-easy egg. We both ordered tea, though we did splurge and share a chocolate shake. After that meal, the jeans would probably be even tighter. We returned to the mall after lunch. This time we shopped at Victoria?s secret, adding matching panties to our purchases. Theresa thought it would be fun if we shared our own secret. "We?ll wear these on Monday," she said, holding up a pair of panties in the faintest pink I?d ever seen. They were almost translucent. The idea appealed to me, too. Panties, bras, slips, nighties, teddy?s, stockings, garter belts. Every item imaginable went into the tell-tell pink bag. When we left the store, I had a bag in each hand and Theresa had one of her own. Out to the car they went before we ventured into the Perimeter Mall again. We shopped for shoes. Theresa giggled as I tried on a pair of platform heels with an eight-inch heel. I wobbled in them but because of the platform they weren?t that difficult to master. I took them off, shaking my head, "I?m too tall in them," I said, then whispering, "I?ll stand out too much." Theresa nodded in understanding. I did settle on a pair of brown suede boots that fit just perfectly. Most of my heels were either a tad snug or a bit loose. These boots hugged my foot. They didn?t pinch and they supported my weight flawlessly. They had a three-inch heel which I thought was just about perfect. They were obviously women?s shoes at that height, but they didn?t make me so tall that I looked like a circus freak vying for an onlooker?s dime. As we shopped, we kissed, held hands, giggled. Once, Theresa snapped my bra only to break down laughing until her eyes were full of joyful tears. "God," she said, "that was great." She wiped her eyes. "My brother used to do that to me, and I hated it. Now I see the appeal." It became a joke to her after that. Every chance she got she would sneak up behind me, grab the back of my bra, pull it outward only to let it snap back. "Stop it," I said, the words stuttering out like a cold diesel engine starting up. I laughed right along with her. Once I spotted her reflection in a mirror and was able to surprise her by ducking at the last moment, spinning around, and taking her in my arms. A deep kiss distracted her but only briefly. Before we separated, she snapped my bra anyway. "Ha ha," she said, sticking out the tongue that had just touched mine. More bags went to the car, leaving our hands free to make additional purchases. Browsing the windowed store fronts gave an indication of the treasures within. Some stores we were able to pass by, but most found the two of us inside, shopping for even more clothes. Theresa bought a dress at one store and a blouse at another, but I just went crazy. I bought shorts and t-shirts decorated with flowers and lace. I bought a skirt that was so short I knew I?d never wear it in public, but Theresa goaded me into it, promising we?d have fun. How could I pass that up? Our last stop was at a well-lit kiosk in the middle of the mall. A teenaged girl with blue hair and a piercing in her nose stood at a small register, looking at me with unmasked incredulity. "What? How?" She looked from one ear to the next. "How are your ears not pierced?" I shrugged. "I know, right?" I said, even if inside I was trembling. This was something I?d not be able to hide when I was in John form. Did I really want to do this? Had I purchased the earrings earlier as a lark? I didn?t think so. I was an all-in kind of guy. Pierced ears were mandatory. I searched for an excuse, "I?m afraid of needles." Theresa smiled at my deception. "Oh, we don?t use needles." She showed me the piercing gun, then, with Theresa watching the blue-haired girl marked my ears with a pen, put the piercing gun to my lobe, and just like that my ears were pierced. She gave me a pair of starter studs, reminding me to wash both my ears and my earrings well each night. "Thanks," I said, looking at my reflection. I wasn?t sure how I felt. The earring holes weren?t going to go away. What would my staff say? Would Alice notice? Somehow, I knew she would. Theresa took my hand, leading me away from the Piercing Pagoda. "You okay?" I nodded. "Yeah." Then I smiled. "I was sitting right there, and she didn?t notice," I waved my hand in front of my skirt and blouse. "Why would she?" Because I was a man in a dress. I was pleasantly passable, I?d been diligently working on that, but I didn?t have the mannerisms of a woman. I didn?t walk with the grace of a woman that had spent decades in heels. I wobbled a bit, even more now that my feet were killing me. My hands were a bit too large and I had an Adam?s apple. Sure, the necklace and the bracelets drew the eye away from my imperfections and from a distance that was okay, but Madam Blue-hair had to notice I was a man. Right? My disguise wasn?t that good. Was she oblivious to what I thought was obvious, or was society just more accepting? I didn?t have much hope for the later, so I went with door number one. "Just surprised," I said. "Come on," Theresa said, gripping my hand even tighter. She pulled me from the mall and back to her car. She was quiet as she drove, but her intentions were plain. I could tell what she was thinking by the intensity of her grip on the steering wheel and the longing glances she gave me. She raced back to my place, more rolling through stop signs than stopping. At my house she said, "Come on." I was out the door before she finished speaking. Theresa pulled me to the bedroom, dropping her clothes as she went. I needed no further encouragement as I stripped off my blouse with its heart-shaped polka dots and dropped it on the couch. I bounced out of my skirt, letting it linger at the door to my bedroom. I reached into my bra only to have Theresa interrupt. "Leave your lingerie," she grinned, "and your heels." I removed my panties, watching at Theresa did the same. I shimmied out of my gaff as Theresa stripped off the rest of her clothes. Finally unrestrained, I moved towards the bed, reaching for Theresa as she reached back for me. Our passion was equally as unconstrained. I experienced sensory overload, overwhelmed by every touch, every taste, every all-consuming thrust. It wasn?t until a bird landed on the dresser in my bedroom that we came up for air. The bird, a blue jay, chirped, standing on my dresser, its head tilted to the side. Theresa giggled. "Oops." I grabbed the blanket that we?d kicked off the bed and wrapped it around my body. I followed our discarded clothing into the living room. The front door was standing wide open, the key still in the lock. I went to shut the door but thought of the bird sitting wide- eyed on my dresser. Mister Blue Jay had to go. It took both of us, each holding a blanket aloft as a makeshift wall to frighten the bird, first out of the bedroom and then, finally out the front door. Only then did I remove the key and shut the outside away. We?d been laughing the whole time. I couldn?t recall a time I?d ever been so overcome with needy passion. Theresa said the same. That night, long after Theresa went home with another date made with both John and Jordan, I put my new clothes away. I spent a bit of time moving John?s clothes to the spare bedroom closet, finally finishing what I?d started before. The master closet seemed to belong to Jordan now. I still had room for both, but the closet just looked better with skirts and blouses, dresses and slacks hanging on their stout, wooden hangers. Even the heels stacked side by side on the floor, like soldiers at muster, seemed like they belong. Jordan was becoming something more than a newfound hobby. She was becoming more and more comfortable. Theresa had accepted her and the world at large, mostly oblivious, hadn?t reacted. Maybe I wasn?t made. And maybe I was, and nobody cared. Sure, there were bigots in the world. I wasn?t na?ve enough to forget that, but maybe it just no longer mattered to me. I spent a few more moments fingering the clothes in my closet. Then, with a smile, I got ready for bed, scolding myself for not having an appropriate nighty to put on. Well, that was something I could fix. (iii) It wasn?t until our seventh date that we brought up the subject of our baggage, the doomed relationships of our past that helped define who we are and plotted the course for our future as a couple. I had smiled at Theresa?s shy question, as if she were afraid of how I would respond, perhaps fearful that I would hurt her with my words. Did she, too, see us becoming something more than individuals? Did she see us morphing from a she and I into an us? It started as simple questions, lightly probing, like a kitten pawing beneath a closed door, not expecting to find much but hoping to find something to play with, something that played back. "Abby?" I asked, taking a long sip of my sweet tea until the ice chattered in the glass. "I still love her," I said, at first uncertain if I should be that honest but deciding to go ahead with the truth. I?d always been that way; I was honest at work and I would be honest in this relationship. Theresa took a sip of her merlot. "Then why did it end?" We?d had the short end of this conversation before. Now it was time for the elongated version. "If you think I?ll say it was her fault you?d be wrong. At first, I blamed her. I think that?s normal, right? But, truthfully, she stuck around far longer than she should have. That?s my fault." I shifted gears. "Do you know who Kenny Chesney is?" She nodded. "He has a song, ?That?s Why I?m Here.? It?s a song about a guy learning he?s an alcoholic while attending an AA meeting. At least that?s how I see it. Know it?" "Yes," she said with a soft smile. "You telling me about your ex reminded me of a line from that song. ?It was my life, word for word.? I had my own ism. It wasn?t alcohol, but work. "I worked so much. It was a rare day when I worked less than twelve hours. I never, never took a full weekend off. I poured everything I had into my business. First to get it started, then to grow it. Every time I earned a dollar I could only wonder where the next one would come from. I was," I paused, looking into Theresa rapt face. She was interested in what I had to say. The waiter came by to fill my tea. He asked if we needed anything. Theresa ordered another glass of merlot and asked for the dessert menu. If she was anxious to leave, she gave no indication. When the waiter left, I continued. "Driven," I finally concluded. "There was one month, right before Abby moved out, where I worked five weeks straight. One day I came home just long enough to shower and change clothes before heading back to the office. Abby hadn?t been home. I remember thinking how glad I was that she wasn?t there. How shitty does that make me?" Theresa was kind enough to remain mute, leaving the rhetorical question unanswered. "I knew if she had been home, she would have stopped me. She would have begged me to stay home, to focus on her instead of the office. It was a fight we had had so many times and I?m ashamed to admit it now, but the office always won. I never put Abby above work. Maybe I did early in our short marriage, but for the last three years, when it came down to work or Abby, work would win, place, and show." "What changed?" Theresa asked. I thought about that for a moment. I liked her question, it implied hope and an acknowledgement that I wasn?t who I used to be. "Jordan," I admitted. "It?s odd, I know. How can changing your outer shell change what?s on the inside? I know it did, I just don?t know how." I looked around the restaurant. A young couple, barely out of high school was sitting on the same side of a booth together. They were laughing, kissing, and when the woman slapped the man?s hidden hand, she didn?t look disgusted. She looked amused and a bit disappointed that she had to have him stop. Even as I sat here, admitting my failures, the world kept moving. "After Abby left," I shrugged, "it didn?t stop. I still lived for working and not much else. It wasn?t until I discovered Jordan that things changed. And for the better. Work has never been better and I?m there less than ever." I shrugged again. "Who knew?" Theresa left that unanswered, too. I told Theresa everything I loved about Abby, leaving nothing out. Maybe I was wrong for doing so? What woman wants to hear that much detail about an earlier relationship. She paid rapt attention, however, hanging onto every word, like they meant as much to her as they did to me. "She?s sounds amazing," she finally said without an ounce of surprise. "She is." After dinner, we went back to my place. It was the second time Theresa spent the night. It would not be the last. (iv) The "I love you," slipped out. We were in the shower together. I?d spent a good bit of time washing Theresa?s back all the while giving a running commentary on how much I was looking forward to doing the front. Theresa would giggle, then when my roaming hands would reach around to caress the rising slope of her breasts, she would swat my hand and point to her spine, or her shoulders, and once, her lovely behind. "You missed a spot," she would say, delaying my exploration. Kneeling behind her, washing the newest spot she touched ? the back of her knee ? I uttered those three words, half choking as I did. I had not meant to say them. The feelings were true, but I still thought it was far too early in our relationship. It had been just shy of three months that we?d been dating, and six weeks since we officially became an un in lieu of a she and I. I gasped, hitching my breath, feeling the heat rise to my cheek. "You cheeky, man," she said, unphased. "I love you, too." The rest were easy with no blushing at all. Chapter 6 (i) "Jennifer," I said after my sister answered the phone. "Ah, my lost brother finally comes up for air." We teased each other a bit, exchanging pleasantries and anecdotes about or lives before I finally broached the subject of my call. "Um," I stammered, knowing what I was going to say didn?t make it any easier. Still, it had to be done. "Can you come over tomorrow? There?s someone I?d like you to meet," I paused, "And there?s something I want to ask you." "Oh, do I finally get to meet the new girlfriend?" "No. Someone else." "Who?" I swallowed before answering. "Jordan." (ii) Jennifer arrived just before ten that Saturday morning. I was waiting for her with an anxiousness I couldn?t quite quell. Meeting Theresa as Jordan had happened as a happy accident. This was the first time I was going to purposefully reveal my new self. I was dressed as flawlessly as possible. Much like my first foray into the mall with Theresa, I awoke early to get ready for my big introduction. I shaved as close as I could, then shaved again. I did my makeup, blending colors in a way that made me look if not pretty then attractive. I chose my clothes with determination, selecting a simple white shift dress that was high on the neck and ended about mid-thigh. For this introduction I went with pantyhose instead of the garter belt I preferred. A simple black belt encircled my waist, adding a splash of contrast to the dress. I kept my golden necklace and cross around my neck and added a simple watch with a tiny black strap to my wrist. On my feet I put on black pumps with a blocky, two- inch heel. I looked like a modern woman, poised to venture out to a classy mid-afternoon luncheon at City Hall. The only thing missing was a hat. With my wig in place, and my breasts filling the cups of my equally black bra, I was ready for Jennifer to arrive. Physically at least. Emotionally, I was terrified. I doubted she would condemn me, but would she understand when I barely understood myself? I was pacing the living room, peering out the window every few minutes until she finally pulled into my driveway. My heart was thrumming in my chest like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. My palms were sweaty and my throat, already tight, seemed to close even more when I heard Jennifer slam her door. I almost hid when she rang the bell. Trembling, my hands twitching, I opened the door. "Hi," Jennifer said, holding out her hand. "I?m John?s sister. You must be Jordan?" Her voice rose at the end. "Or are you his new girlfriend?" "I?m Jordan," I said. With Theresa?s help, I?d been working on my voice, trying to make it go higher. It was another piece of my masquerade. "Please, come in." I stepped aside, allowing my sister to enter. Jennifer came in, eyeing the place. "My brother still keeps a clean house," she said. "Oh, he has a maid now," I said, the faintest trace of a smile lifting my lips. "He does?" I nodded. "Can I get you a drink?" I grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator before returning to Jennifer. She was sitting on the couch, eyeing me. By the look on her face, a cross between shock, confusion, incredulity, amusement, and surprise all rolled into one. "John?" I nodded, handing her a cold bottle of water. "You got your ears pierced," she said. Alice had noticed the holes in my ears the Monday I returned to work following my ear piercing. Jennifer noticed them just as quickly. She set the water bottle on the coffee table. "Look at you. You look like a girl." "That?s the idea." That started the long questionnaire. The first question wasn?t why. Jennifer?s first question made me smile. "How did you turn out so convincing?" I told her everything, from finding Abby?s panties, to learning how to do makeup, and the joyous discovery that life outside of work was an obtainable goal realized by the introduction of this new side of me. To her credit she didn?t mock me, and I truly hadn?t thought she would. She seemed bemused and more than a bit interested. She poked me in the chest. "Those aren?t real, are they?" "No. Nothing drastic and I?m not planning on going any further," I said. "I?m not a woman trapped in a man?s body, nothing like that. I just find," I indicated my body with a flourish, "this relaxing in a way I don?t really understand." We chatted some more. I showed her my closet and when she saw my fitted maid?s dress, she touched the fabric and laughed, "so you?re the maid." I felt the heat on my cheeks as I gave an affirmative nod. "God, you?re such a girl." She punched my arm for emphasis. "I have a sister." She complimented me on my clothing. "I have to borrow this," she said holding a satin burgundy evening gown to her chest. "It?s gorgeous." The thought of it made her laugh. She pawed through the rest of my dresses. Looking down, Jennifer gasped as the growing number of shoes littering my closet floor. "My brother has more heels than I do," she protested. I shrugged but somehow felt proud of that. Shopping for shoes wasn?t an Olympic event, it didn?t even take any talent, but hearing my sister make that comment made me feel like I was accomplished. Maybe that?s silly, but I don?t care. I like heels. Back in the living room, Jennifer took a sip of her water. "So, sister of mine, what did you want to ask me." That question was easy to answer. "Will you be my maid-of-honor?" Jennifer listened as I explained about Theresa. She took it all in, a smile rising on her face long before I finished telling her about my first shopping trip with Theresa, with me dressed as Jordan, slowly overcoming my nervousness. By the end she was nodding. "Of course, silly. Just don?t go picking out any ugly bridesmaid dresses." (iii) The day before I introduced Jennifer to Jordan I proposed to Theresa. I was dressed as Jordan in a pair of simple jean shorts. I had blue wedges on me feet that had a thin ankle strap encircling my leg. I wore my breast forms in a white bra and over that I was wearing a white t-shirt. My makeup was as good as it got. I constantly eyed myself in a mirror, touching up my makeup. Keeping my face neat helped keep the man behind my eyes well hidden. Theresa was wearing jeans and a Metallica t-shirt that was so faded I could barely make out the name of the band. We were sitting in a local coffee shop, sipping mocha lattes, and sharing a chocolate scone. Overhead Adele was singing something about rolling in the deep. Two baristas were working behind the counter, calling out orders as they completed them. Two young men, each wearing beanie hats and headphones were plugged into their laptops oblivious to the world around them. Six people were waiting to order while another three were standing to the side awaiting their orders, eyeing the sweets and treats hidden beneath protective glass. The coffee shop was a flurry of activity, but my thoughts were only on Theresa and the diamond ring hidden in my pocket. When Abby had moved out, shocking me but not really shocking me, she had left behind her wedding and engagement rings. She could have kept them. I wouldn?t have faulted her for doing so, but somehow seeing them she had finally made her point in a way I could understand. "I won?t be needing these anymore," the twin bands had said. Now, that engagement ring, the one I had given to Abby so long ago was sitting in my pocket. Theresa would know they were regifted, but I was sure she would not mind. At least I hoped so. "Want to go to the beach this weekend?" Theresa asked, unaware of my plans. She smiled. "We can get you a nice two-piece. Work on our tan lines?" The idea fascinated me. "Sounds good, but-" I thought of my breasts. I?d have to do something different with them. Maybe it was time to buy the glue I?d studied. "I was thinking of something else." "Oh?" Uncaring about the people round me, I dropped to the floor. Once, long ago, I had proposed to Abby in this very coffee shop. I was a broken record, doing everything exactly as I had done before. But once, long ago, Abby had said yes in this very shop. If superstitions held, Theresa would do the same. I knew Theresa well enough. She would understand the nostalgia I felt. I put one foot on the floor and reached into my pocket. "Theresa," I said, trembling slightly as a dozen pair of eyes turned to watch the show. "Will you marry me?" Theresa could say anything. "We hadn?t been dating long enough to get married." Or, "I?m not sure, John." Or, worst of all, "No." My trembling was evident as I held the engagement ring that had once belonged to Abby up to the woman I loved. The chatter in the coffee shop became nothing but a muted, anticipatory whispers. Like me, shoppers and staff alike were waiting for Theresa to reply. I knew her answer before those around me. Her eyes, the color of mocha, lit up and her lips pulled into a huge, radiant smile. She gave a nod to me, then, for me and those serving as witnesses, she said, "Yes!" Theresa brought her hand forward, allowing me to put the ring on her finger. Around us there was a cacophony of applause, laughter, and congratulatory messages thrown our way. The ring was a perfect fit. (iv) We left the coffee shop, leaving the well-wishers behind. "I have a better idea," Theresa said, once we were out of earshot. "Instead of the beach, let?s do something else." "Oh?" "We need to go shopping." She nuzzled into me. "I want you to be the bride this time. Please." "Okay." (v) Saturday morning, once again dressed as Jordan, Theresa and I were hitting the stores. This time we were shopping for wedding dresses. Theresa had been a bride once before. It was something I had learned all about during our date where we discussed our baggage, the failed relationships of our past that shaped those in the now. This time she wanted me to have the experience. "Besides, Jordan, it?ll be fun," she had said with unhidden mirth. Now we were entering a bridal boutique. The shop was far larger than I expected. A trio of well-lit cubby holes created a divide in the middle of the store, each tiny segmented space surrounded by three mirrors. The left- and right-hand walls were lined with wedding gowns, dresses, and bridal lingerie. Two racks in the center of the store were filled with veils of every length, from those that would barely cover a face to ones that would trail behind the bride a good ten feet. In front of the store stood seven mannequins, each wearing a different style of wedding dress. Behind the division made by the mirrored cubbies, sat a trio of dressing rooms. Deeper in the store were full racks of bridesmaid dresses in every color from aqua to yellow and everything in between. The store smelled of cedar and fresh Autumn pine. Candles with electric flames lit the pristine walls. A lady, probably a few years younger than Theresa approached. "Who?s the bride?" Grinning, Theresa said, "She is." Theresa indicated me. "Hi, I?m Jordan," I said, holding out my hand. She introduced herself as Diana. "A pleasure," she said, shaking my hand. If she could see through my masquerade, she gave no indication. I knew I looked passable, especially under the distracted, oblivious scrutiny of the general populace, people going about their own lives, uncaring about those around them, but Diana and I would be working side by side. Surely, she would notice. Maybe it was better to get that bit of knowledge out of the way. Before I could say something, Diana said, "you?re very convincing," putting the doubt aside and letting me know that she still accepted how I was dressed. "Most like you come in alone." She smiled at Theresa. "And dressed overly feminine." She paused for a moment. "You?re the first to come in wearing shorts." It was part of my research. Anything that brought attention to yourself was something to be avoided. To blend in, you needed to blend in, to dress and act like everyone else. It was the visible nail standing out that received the hammer?s blow. "It?s okay then?" Diana laughed. "At these prices? I?ll sell to anyone." Just like that I liked her. She was honest and forthcoming and had a wicked since of humor. Diana looked at Theresa and the ring on her finger. "Will you be in a dress, too? We have a great buy two get two special going on." Theresa laughed, "I?ll be in a rented tux," she said. "Jordan?s the bride." "Well," she said, "make sure you get her an engagement ring. Yours is lovely, by the way." Theresa examined the ring on her finger, something I?d seen her do quite frequently since I put it on her finger. "Thank you." We got down to the business of buying me a dress. Diana started by examining my frame, seeing how my body looked. Smiling, she went around the store pulling one dress down, then another, until she had five different dresses in her hand. "These should work," she said. She hung the dresses on a hook in the closet of three changing rooms. "Try one on, then come out and let us see." She nodded to the mirrored nook. "Okay." Each dress was more magnificent than the last. Diana knew her trade. Each dress I tried fit well enough, though Diana did say that alterations were included. Every time I tried a new dress, I would come out of the fitting room to stand in the first mirrored recess just to examine myself in the mirror. Satin and scalloped lace caressed my skin. The hems were long, slipping silently against the floor. Each dress had a full neck. Diana had seen through my disguise and knew I didn?t have the cleavage needed to pull off a low-cut gown. Theresa oohed and aahed, her smile plastered on her face. Diana was more critical, telling me why one dress was better than another. "That one makes you look hippy," she said, or, "that one makes your shoulders stand out. You need to look more delicate." Finally, it happened. I?ve seen it in movies and television shows, but I never understood that it was real until I happened into one dress. It was perfect. It was the dress I would be married in. I knew it as soon as I put it on. The dress was tight at the waist before flowing lower in a waterfall of white satin. The back and arms were see- through with delicate, lacy flowers running down the arms. There were faux pearls lining the neck and pearl buttons running down the spine. Equally white flowers lined the bottom of the dress like appliques. I walked into the cubical of light to look at myself from all sides. I gasped at how lovely I looked. Theresa gasped as well, her hands coming up to her face, her eyes were saucers. "This is my wedding dress," I said. There was no ambiguity in my voice. There was no doubt in my heart. Theresa gushed, "It?s beautiful. You?re beautiful." Sure, she was my fianc? and she was biased, but her words still made my heart swell. Diana gave me a critical eye and then smiled. No other words needed to be said. She had me stand still to stick a few pins into the dress for the few alterations I would need. She promised it would be ready in three days. That was plenty of time. Theresa and I left the boutique. We went shopping for white heels to match my wedding dress and new bridal lingerie. Buying a pair of full- cut bikini panties with the word "bride" bejeweled into the seat had been fun. Theresa had added a pair of black boxers with the word groom stitched in golden thread across the seat. We found the heels in one store. They fit well but the heel was five full inches. They were now the tallest heel I owned. Theresa had me buy a second pair: part of a buy one get one free deal, far less humorous than the one Diana had mentioned, but more cost-effective. I didn?t need any encouragement although though Theresa did say I would need the practice to dance in heels that tall. We finished the day at my house. This time, even though the passion was high, I remembered to shut the front door. Hours later, we came up for air. (vi) I was standing at the back of the church, waiting for the music to start. Down the carpeted aisle, my groom was waiting for me. Theresa did not look like a man; she looked like a woman in a tux. I looked like a woman, dressed to the nines in her wedding dress. My hair was coiffed and styled, pulled up in the back with a gentle curl with full, rolling bangs. It wasn?t a wig, not this time. During the few months, waiting for our wedding day, I let my hair grow out. At work, which was still going swimmingly, I just kept my hair in a single ponytail. Alice gave me a knowing look but said nothing. When one of my employees asked, I just said, "It?s easier." That was a lie. It was a lot harder keeping a woman?s hairstyle than a man?s. And more expensive, too. The music started, the march we?ve all heard. This time it was for me. Here comes the bride, and I was that bride, about to marry the woman I loved. The church was mostly empty. Theresa?s parents were there, bemused by my attire and more than a little incredulous. When Theresa explained everything, they welcomed me "back home," as Eileen, Theresa?s mom, said. My closest friends were sitting on the right-hand side of the aisle, with Theresa?s friends sitting with her parents on the left. They all knew who I was, and they were all accepting. Or they said they were and that was good enough for Theresa and me. Standing next to Theresa were her two best friends, Marilyn and Carly. They, too, were wearing rented tuxedos. Opposite Theresa stood my sister, smiling in her lovely yellow dress. As requested, the dress she wore wasn?t the least bit ugly. When I showed it to her, two weeks before the wedding, Jennifer had smiled. "You have good taste, sis." I liked how she called me sis, how she was able to distinguish Jordan from John and how she had readily accepted both. I slowly marched down the aisle, one foot in front of the other, clutching my bouquet. Theresa had been right. It took some time getting accustomed to five-inch heels. I started practicing with them the day after I bought them, donning the heels the moment I arrived home from work and not taking them off until I tucked myself into bed, sometimes alone but more often than not with Theresa by my side. Under my wedding dress I was wearing Abby?s panties. The same pair that started my welcomed transformation. They were as snug as ever, bringing me closer to my ex-wife, but that wasn?t why I wore them. They were old, the oldest pair I owned. They were new, or new to me. They were Abby?s, so they were borrowed, and they were the faintest wisp of blue, like that of a cloudless late morning sky. That one item of clothing satisfied the tradition all brides obeyed. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I stopped in front of my groom, smiling every bit as large as she was. Since we were being formal - and official - the minister used our proper names. "Do you, Jonathan Poole, take this woman, Abigail Theresa Poole...."