Hair Soup

Jill M I

 

Chapter One

You're as cold as ice
You're willing to sacrifice our love
You want paradise
But someday you'll pay the price
I know.

"Cold As Ice" - Foreigner

 

An angry boy and his frustrated mother had been arguing in the school parking lot. The woman (who looked too young to have a son old enough to be a Brecht student) was faultlessly dressed in a business suit. She most likely had been called away from her office for a disciplinary conversation with Principal Bentson. She looked the corporate kind… maybe legal counsel. Every hair on her head was perfectly positioned to set off her apple-shaped face. She wore too much make-up. Her flaw was that her makeup showed no flaws… like the food in a McDonald's ad.

She definitely had money. Almost everyone who attended Brecht had money. The $14,000 annual tuition, plus the $5,000 to $10,000 expected annual 'contribution' to the endowment fund, keeps the non-wealthy away from 'our' private high school.

Most Brecht families lived in Northbrook. Some of the scholarship students made the one-hour trek on the public transportation from North Chicago. Others had a much longer ride, as there is no El to Northbrook and the buses are slow.

I wondered what it would be like to be in her shoes? I also wondered what it would be like wearing her blouse, her skirt, her jewelry… everything she had on! I closed my eyes and imagined the aroma of the Chanel #5 floating up to me from my bra; a bra saturated with lace and satin. My long, platinum blonde hair brushed the collar of the Dusty Rose jacket that sat over my pearl, silk blouse. My opaque pantyhose whispered to me as I strolled toward…

"Ahhhhmmmmm"

Damn, that was me! I opened my eyes to the laughter of my seven classmates, as my face turned scarlet. My mind was jolted back from a dreamy promenade in the parking lot. The mom, her horribly spoiled son and my yearning for feminine attire faded. They were replaced by my immediate (and much less satisfying) surroundings and circumstances. I contemplated my Nike running shoes with the laces that would never been tied. They were built to withstand the pounding of extensive jogging. A claim I had no intention of testing.

"Is something wrong, Steve?" Diane Lilah was ruling the meeting. I'd disturbed her kingdom by distracting from her soliloquy. She liked her meetings to move along at a fast pace. She had places to go and people to conquer… or at least she liked to give that impression.

Diane didn't really care if you paid attention to her. She was her own audience. For your own safety, you didn't interrupt her! You showed up for her meeting on time. You sat when she said sit. You jumped when she said jump.

"I was just thinking about that nerd, Jack Nelson." Good one, Steve! When in doubt, deflect the attention away from yourself by putting someone else down. Jack Nelson was running for class president against Diane. He had a lot of good ideas and was campaigning on a platform of real student issues. Everyone knew Diane would win. She stuck to the basics. She was running strictly on popularity. Jack drove a rusted out Chevy Luv pickup for gosh sakes. Diane had the good sense to drive a new plum-colored, fully loaded Mustang. "He has about as much chance of winning as 'Gregy' has of being elected Homecoming Queen." Greg McMillan was a freshman that had told too many people about his secret desires to someday become a woman.

Diane was obviously pleased by my statement of support. Not that she valued my opinion (or anyone else's). Her pleasure was derived from her ability to maintain her position of absolute power. The supplicant tone of my remarks brought a smile to her oversexed mouth.

Sometimes I was repulsed by what I had to do to get along in high school. I'd vote for Jack Nelson. I also thought Greg had an absolute right to be whoever or whatever he wanted to be.

"We need to focus people!" She rose to a statuesque 5'8" and paced to the blackboard. Her 2" heels resonated against the polished oak floor. Diane always wore high heels, silk stockings and expensive, exquisite perfume. Her posture was impeccable for a runway model, but seemed rigid and stiff for a high school student.

Slowly and carefully, she drew yellow lines across the green board. Every penis in the room had chalk envy. Her supple fingers had produced a few boners and several large block letters.

OUR GOAL IS TO MAKE THE '85 BEACON THE BEST YEARBOOK IN BRECHT HISTORY

"I spent all last night working with Linda committing our goal to writing," Diane said.

Linda Schmidt was Diane's closest friend. Being Diane's closest friend didn't mean they were bosom buddies. They were about as close as third cousins at a family reunion. They got along, because the occasion demanded that they must.

Linda was the only one at Brecht who could stand Diane. All the rest of us just admired her and lusted for her body.

Diane was the stuff of wet dreams. She could have given the mom in the parking lot (who had finally left with her little brat) tips on fashion and beauty. Diane's body was fantastic. She was fully developed and perfectly proportioned. Her face was flawless and aesthetically pleasing. She could have been a Miss Texas with her big hair and perfect teeth.

Being beautiful at Brecht was common. When your family has money, it's amazing how good-looking you can be, but Diane was beyond good-looking. She blew through damned-near perfect… all the way to intimidating. Perched on her high heels, she peered down at her inferiors.

She knew everyone's name in the whole school and called out to them in the halls like they were friends. In truth, nobody regarded Diane as a friend.

I'd known Diane all of my life. My dad, Sam Rasch, was the senior partner of Rasch, Peterson and Donnelly. His law firm had 84 attorneys and listed as its clients nearly every large corporation, foundation and political entity in Illinois. My father's desires were endless and his cares and fears were equally as big. You could measure his avarice by the number of people who looked forward to celebrating his funeral.

Diane's father, George Lilah, had been a junior partner in the firm since before Diane and I were born. Her dad reeked of ambition. He was the firm's tax attorney. He was small, bookish and laughed at all the wrong times.

Dad (Big Sam) was the primary litigator.

George would give his eyeteeth to be a senior partner, but was smart enough to know there wasn't a chance in hell of that happening. He 'focused' on keeping what status he had in the firm. I heard Dad say George bought his way into the firm. Diane's family had buckets of money squirreled away from something their ancestors did centuries ago. George was so rich he was born sneering.

The firm tried to act like one big happy family. There was the annual picnic and the Christmas party. Everyone belonged to Willow Creek Country Club. Diane and I have been tripping over each other for years. I once heard her dad yell at her in the club parking lot. He insisted Diane be nice to me. I thought he was trying to teach her manners. Later I realized he was afraid of Sam. He probably didn't want Diane creating a problem for him by offending me.

Everyone was afraid of Sam. Sam was always having dinners and parties at our house. He was the consummate cigar smokin', back room politician. He'd be partying with a 'nobody' at our home and the next thing you knew that 'nobody' was our governor.

Sam rarely drank alcohol or smoked. Somehow he managed to come off as a beer swilling, back slapping, cigar chomping… man's man. He poured a great deal more scotch than he ever imbibed.

"This will be our motto, our touchstone. When the going gets tough, we'll just look each other in the eyes and say, our goal is to make the '85 Beacon the best yearbook in Brecht history." As Diane read the motto, which we all could read for ourselves, she tapped the board under each word with her long, bright-red talons.

She was really on a roll. Motto, schmotto. If the going got tough, Diane would be at her hairdressers. Diane was management. We were the worker bees. Not that there was really that much work in what we were doing. Our main job was to select pictures from the thousands taken by the Brecht in-house photographer. Life at Brecht was one big photo-op. Picking pictures for the annual was 'tough', only in that the students in the pictures looked so much alike from photo to photo. We almost never set eyes on anything resembling a natural pose.

Our work would be perfect, at least in Diane's eyes. She was burdened with the task of protecting an ungrateful world from mistakes. She seldom (if ever) was aware of the fear of failure that drove her behavior.

"That's cool, Diane!" Mr. Rhinedome said. "Your motto is right-on."

I'd almost forgot that Rhinedome was in the room. He was the annual staff faculty advisor. He was a nice enough guy, for a putz. He volunteered for everything. He was also the advisor for the student senate, the dance committee, the Pep Club and was assistant girl's soccer coach. Like Brecht, he came through the sixties with his Eisenhower ideals intact. Due to his lack of hair, he was commonly called 'The Dome'. Why he didn't do something about his baldness was beyond me. Plugs, toupee… something. I could actually see myself in his shiny pate.

I scratched my scalp and surreptitiously checked my full head of hair. It was my only outstanding physical feature. I spent a lot of time making sure my hair looked its best.

I'd always been on the small side. When my grandmother was alive you could feel her disappointment when she visited and I hadn't grown. She'd invariably say, "My what a beautiful head of hair you have." She died some time ago. Sam was my only living relative. Over the years, I'd come to believe Grammy's compliments about my hair. I kept it shoulder-length; about eight inches long, and had a razor cut every three weeks at The Barbers, a uni-sex barbershop.

Diane was droning on and on. She was engaging us one by one in small talk. Diane had been doing 'small talk' since we were four. I hated 'small talk'. I could see my life slipping away, minute by minute, hour by hour, while Diane asked rhetorical questions about nothing. Her chitchat supposedly took the place of the real courtesy she extended to no one.

I hated most of what I had to do each day. I really liked the traditions that made Brecht what it was, but I questioned the validity of the values that created those traditions.

Sam had me 'on course'. Brecht is a prep school. It is the 'gateway to Harvard' according to Sam. All I had to do was give the admissions office at Harvard the necessary documentation that certified me as a yuppie puppy and I'd be in. Sam's money and political influence would grease the skids. Sam was adamant I do my part, building a 'resume' of high school honors and achievements.

All the kids at Brecht had similar short-term goals. We didn't play soccer because we liked it. We played soccer because we needed sports activities on our college admissions file.

Brecht was very accommodating. They offered 'sports' such as alpine skiing, fencing and single-handed sailing so that everyone could letter in one or more sports without really making much of a commitment.

Being part of a championship team was a plus. Brecht handed out scholarships to 'diverse' student (who coincidentally were good athletes). A couple of 'diverse' students, who happened to be good ballplayers, could change a mediocre team into a champion.

Brecht students and their parents weren't stupid. They invested their time and money into sports where money could make a real difference. The more costly the equipment, camps, club fees, etc., the easier it was to 'excel'. If the cost of entry was too much for most people to bear, there was a reduction in the amount and quality of the competition. Sports like hockey, where ice time had become so cost prohibitive, were perfect.

I was on the annual staff to impress some nameless, faceless geek admissions officer. All that 'resume' building was phony bullshit. It was more crap we put ourselves through in the names of our fathers.

Linda had a different motivation. She was totally different; she was into causes. She hoped to promote those causes in the annual. Linda hoped to leave a legacy. Most of the Brecht students prided themselves on what their ancestors had passed on to them. Linda was concerned with the world she would leave for her children's children.

Most Brecht students detested her ideas as much as they loathed her for stating them. It's not that Linda's ideas were bad. She made some good points. From what I could tell from the books I'd read on the environment, she knew her stuff. She would have been better off feigning ignorance.

She was distinctive in a world that demanded conformity. Her Dad and she were hunters. There weren't even a dozen Brecht boys who had hunted. She wouldn't actually shoot animals with anything but a camera, but supposedly was a marksman…markswoman… whatever…. with a rifle.

Had Linda been in college during the sixties, she would've burned her bra. From what I could see, she should have burned the one she was wearing in that annual staff meeting. It was one of those G.I. issue bras. The ones that are guaranteed to make your pecker wilt if you happened to look at them in the process of some backseat boogieing.

Not that I was really much of an expert on fornication. I was still technically a virgin. Technically, you're a virgin when you haven't had sex with a girl. I'd had sex… plenty of times. Not with boys… unless you count me. My sex had been much more personal… while thinking of girls.

Sometimes when I was 'hardening my aardvark', I thought about what the girls wore. Linda's sensible clothing didn't do much for me. I liked to think about sexy, silky things. For some reason, I got even more wound up if I thought about me wearing those things. That probably made me some kind of pervert ready for a psychiatrist's couch. I wondered if Sam went to a shrink? He must've, he needed to exorcise all the devils behind the bullshit he put people through.

***

That evening I was watching a football game on TV with William Wollaston, John Locke and David Hume. David's dad had one of those projector screen TVs, so the screen was pretty big. The picture was grainy as hell, but big. It was neat up close; the images of the players were as big as you.

We were doing a little dope and having a few brewskis. I didn't hang out much. I was sort of a fringe guy, too small to play any of the real sports and not overly popular. I sort of mixed in with the crowd and tried not to be noticed. It pretty much worked for me. Brecht was the kind of school where having a powerful dad would assure your acceptance. In a school like Brecht, I wasn't all that small, physically. Rich people have beautiful daughters and small weasels for sons.

When David, John and William walked into a room, they lit it up… instant fun. I was a chameleon, blending in quickly with the wallpaper.

David had been farting. The air was polluted. We threw popcorn in the air and missed most with our mouths. It was a typical night with the guys. David loved being coarse. A certain amount of crudity made a person interesting. In David's case, he carried it to the extreme.

We watched Notre Dame play USC. I drifted, thinking about the USC cheerleaders' outfits. I thought about how great it would be to wear one. As I sat in a room full of guys, I wished I could wear a skimpy little skirt and tight sweater with my navel showing. I also sported a huge hard-on.

John noticed it and yelled, "Wood duck!" As if it was big news when a teenage boy gets a stiffy.

"Those USC cheerleaders are foxes," I said. My astute remark ignited a lewd discussion of what we could do if we had fifteen minutes alone with just one of them. The odds of that were roughly equal to the odds of Traveler, the USC white horse mascot, jumping out of the TV screen and munching on the popcorn scattered all over the rug.

William was a co-captain and quarterback of the Brecht football team. John and David were in the offensive line. All three were well over 180 pounds and towered five or six inches over my 5'6". Probably, someday they would have a shot at babes something like the USC cheerleaders. I wouldn't.

"That one blonde cheerleader looks like Diane Lilah," David said. David had dated Diane when we were freshmen. Diane had a reputation. She would go out with you until you pushed her for sex. She would do anything sexual you requested.

Once.

After that you were done. She would never go out with you again.

"She's a cunt." John said. John supposedly hadn't known the rules. The first time Diane and John were together he'd begged for a hand-job. Later, when William and David told him what he could have had, he got pissed. Apparently he hadn't gotten over it.

"She's okay." William exhaled the words along with the marijuana smoke he'd been holding deep in his lungs. William had known the ground rules before dating Diane. On his fourth night with Diane he'd asked her to go around the world with him. His little brother had been watching a Betamax movie in the rec room about twenty feet away as they took their sexual journey. William received a bachelor's degree in sexology that night. The rest of us were comparatively stuck in junior high. "What'd she do for you, Steve?"

"I can't tell you that." I said. "That's between her and me."

"I'll bet with your dad and her dad being partners, she bends her one-night-only rule for you," David leered at me with a look of pure envy.

"She sure does." I wasn't lying. Diane had gone out of her way to screw or blow almost every guy in our class. Even though she only did them once, she left a lasting impression. Each and every one of them hated her for not being able to have her again. Yet, they all were hot for her. They knew what they were missing. She controlled their every action through their rage and desire.

She bent her rule for me all right. Everyone else with a functioning prick got to name his sexual fantasy (even if it was just for one night). ME… I got nothing.

Diane and I never talked about it. She let me know in subtle ways that I was out of bounds. At least that's what I told myself. No sense admitting to yourself you're a dweeb.

"Why does she pal around with that Linda creep?" David asked. "Linda's such a loser. She's always talking about whales or dolphins or some strange thing. What a waste of a great body!"

"I'd like to dolphin her!" John undulated his body in a motion half between a dolphin swimming and a bull in heat. We all laughed.

Linda was hard to take. She committed the cardinal sin that no Brecht student could forgive. She made her fellow students think.

No one forgot the day in ninth grade composition when Linda delivered a paper titled, "Good Breeding Consists Of Concealing How Much We Think Of Ourselves And How Little We Think Of Others". From that day forward, she was a social untouchable. She maintained that status by overtly not caring who thought what about her. She would have been better off writing "Equality Gave Rise To Cheap And Tawdry Merchandise".

We seemed to end up in a lot of the same classes, on committees and were in identical school clubs. Even though Linda was hard up socially, I couldn't imagine someone like me getting a date with her. I never dated.

The USC cheerleaders were back on the screen with their life-sized vaginas inches away from our attentive eyes. Once again that familiar feeling rushed through my body as I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to be one of them. I'd probably never wear women's clothing, but a guy could think about it, couldn't he?

Later that night, I'd think more about their uniforms as I shot a wad of well-bred sperm into a handful of Kleenex.

 

Chapter Two

I loved Harvard. I'd had to jump through some onerous hoops to get in, but Harvard was great. Sam acted like he did it all. I aced the SAT's. I earned the 3.92 GPA. I took part in all those dorky extra-curricular activities.

Sam had the pull.

I guess he was right. He got me in.

Harvard was a place where I could be me. No more put-on. What you saw was what you got. The first few months had been a challenge, but I got my feet on the ground. I learned who and what I had to be to get along. I had to work hard to meet the academic challenge. I wanted to graduate near the top of the class.

Diane called me. She was at Bryn Mawr College. She wanted to get together. Diane seemed to know what she wanted. I was still haunted by a vague feeling that everything about me was wrong.

We were 983 miles from home and just 300 miles apart, I guess it made some vague sense for someone who went out of her way to avoid me in high school to want to see me under those circumstances. The only other classmate on the east coast was Linda Schmidt. She was down at Connecticut College. I suspected she was enrolled there to be somewhat close to Diane. I wondered if there was a little something going on between the two of them.

As I drove down the interstate toward Pennsylvania, I thought about lesbian sex. I thought about some form of sex nearly 24 hours a day. I got an erection. I'd heard things about some of the Bryn Mawr women. They were supposedly open to alternative lifestyles. Why did my Johnson get so stiff when I was driving?

It would be nice to see her. I wasn't quite sure if the seven-hour drive would be worth it, given her hands-off attitude toward my skin-flute in high school. But hell, it would be nice to see anyone from home. Who'd have thought I'd ever miss Northbrook?

It would be nice to see any girl. I guess none of the girls in Boston wanted to spend time with a guy as small as me, even though I did have 'gorgeous' hair. I hadn't actually asked anyone out, but I could tell they weren't interested.

I loved the way Bostonians say 'gorgeous'. A few days after I got here, I was riding in a cab. The driver said, "Miss, you got gorgeous hair." It was cold that day. I was bundled in a quilted jacket. I was so embarrassed I kept quiet and didn't correct his gender error.

I wished for a girl to whisper in my ear, as we were taking the skin boat to tuna town, "You got gorgeous hair.". I'd probably die a virgin.

There was Diane's sorority house, Phi Kappa Kappa. It was the seventh house on sorority row, as Diane had promised. I was forty-five minutes early. I wasn't really that overly eager, I just liked to be on time. I listened to the radio for forty minutes then walked to the door. The extra time allowed for my cock to subside. As I walked to the door, it finally hit me that Diane's dad probably forced her to call me to fulfill some perceived 'firm' social obligation.

The woman that answered the door was about four inches taller than me. My eyes were instantly drawn to her ample breasts. She looked like she was prepared to go to a symphony or some fancy dress ball. She was probably only a year or two older than me, but she looked like she could be my mother. There was a big difference between an 18-year-old nerd from the Midwest and a 21-year-old Bryn Mawr sorority woman.

"Yyesss?"

"Hi! I'm Steve Rasch. I'm here to see Diane Lilah." I felt like a pair of brown shoes in a room full of tuxedos. She eyed me from head to toe. I was tempted to check my zipper. Her piercing inspection made me glad I was wearing clean shorts.

"Is 'Dee' expecting you?"

"Dee?"

"Wait right here… I'll see if 'Dee' wants to talk to you."

With that she turned her back, leaving me standing on the front steps with the door open behind her. I didn't know whether to go in, stand in the door, or simply go back to Harvard and cut my losses.

I decided to walk into what looked to be a living room. Nearly twenty minutes passed, as the only sound I heard was the ticking and chiming of the hall clock. There was nothing to read. There were a few art objects, but they were of little interest to me. The room was filled with the odor of hair spray and incense. I'd finally sat in one of the uninviting straight-back chairs when 'Dee' walked into the room.

"Steve, it's sooo good to see you."

She looked great. She'd aged four or five years over the past few months. She was dressed quite similarly to her sorority sister. We'd arranged to go out 'for a bite to eat and a few drinks'. I'd dressed for a burger and a beer, in contrast she was decked out for quiche and merlot. I was about to go out with an older woman who was my age.

"It's great to see you too! Dee?" She didn't comment on my questioning of her new name. She also failed to apologize for being twenty minutes late.

"We have to hurry, Steve. Our reservations are in fifteen minutes and the inn is ten minutes from here."

Reservations?

In a few minutes, we were gazing at each other over a white linen covered table in a secluded corner of a quaint old inn's dining room. Okay… I was gazing. She was studying me with the clinical interest a spider reserves for lunch.

"Steve, has anyone ever told you that you have gorgeous hair?" Holy cow! She didn't have the Boston accent, but I'd live with it.

"Not really," I lied. Maybe the night would be fun! She hadn't changed that much, on the inside. Her goals seemed structured to protect and preserve her status quo. It was funny how much Dee valued traditionalism without questioning the traditions themselves.

We talked like the old 'friends' we probably should have been. She was excited about college and especially enthused about her sorority.

"Mother was a PKK. It's the only way to go." Dee spoke of her sorority with the fervor of a Rotarian. "Being a PKK isn't enough if you want to be someone in politics. You have to get invited into the Phyllis Stine's. That's the 'in' crowd. Phyllis is the head of the career development office, and a PKK alum. For the past thirty years she's been helping our girls become involved in national politics. Four Phyllis Stine's are congresswomen and there's talk the Phyllis Stine's could soon have a senator. I'd give anything to be a senator."

Man oh man… I was out of my league. She was talking about becoming a senator. I was having trouble picking a major.

From what she said about the 'Phyllis Stine' women it appeared they had one goal… become as artificial as possible. Diane would fit right in. She had a desire to be watched, considered, valued, praised, prized and revered. She would do what was needed to fulfill her desires.

Dee insisted on ordering. She didn't even ask me what I wanted. She simply pulled the waiter toward her side of the table and rattled off a very precise set of instructions. We were having duck à l'orange and steamed vegetables. They weren't my favorite… but I'd get by.

Not only had she emasculated me by usurping my right to order, but she also embarrassed me by demanding to know the 'specials'. The rich were always looking for a bargain. I was losing interest, as it seemed less and less likely the evening would be anything but a continuation of our 'plutonic' past.

"Have some more wine, Steve." A father of a 'Phyllis Stine' owned the inn. Even the under-aged members of her sorority drank there without trouble. I was already tipsy. My drive back to Harvard would be fraught with peril. Perhaps I'd find a motel.

"Excuse me, I'll be right back," I said. I navigated the hundred or so steps to the men's room on uncertain legs.

Upon returning, I found Dee smiling like the Cheshire cat. I must have been doing something right. Or, maybe her loneliness matched mine.

We finished our wine and Dee ordered Brandy Alexanders. As we waited for the ice cream drinks, Dee asked me if I'd heard from any of our classmates.

"Not a one. I guess we're too far away from everyone," I said. My mouth worked hard to form the words.

"Linda is less than two hours from you at New London. Maybe you two can get together. She's always had a thing for you."

"Really, I didn't think Linda knew I existed." Maybe Linda wasn't a lesbian?

"She's the one who first made me aware of your beautiful hair."

Dee stroked my hair while her other hand found its way to my thigh.

I was getting confusing messages. She seemed to be sexually interested in me, yet she also seemed to want to set me up with Linda. Either way I'd win. One moment, I couldn't attract flies, the next I had a hot babe climbing all over me while suggesting another was in the wings.

I laughed the low, throaty chuckle of a knowing Harvard man. Why was I doing that? No one told a joke. What was it that was so funny? The frozen Brandy Alexanders arrived and were very, very good. I rolled the little filbert on my tongue. The smooth, creamy texture of the vanilla ice cream blended with crème de cocoa, sprinkled with nutmeg, was very enticing. The heady bouquet of the brandy wafted through my nasal passages, clouding my brain.

Dee signed for the meal. Who paid was of no concern to me. My entire body felt soft and compliant. Dee told the waiter to send a bottle of champagne to room 6c. She was quite specific in her champagne order, but I didn't hear every word.

As we walked out of the dining room, she put her arm around my shoulder, pulled me to her and kissed my ear. She was about four inches taller than me in her heels. I felt very comfortable as I rested my head on her shoulder. Her lips nibbled my lobe as her tongue dampened my ear, but not my enthusiasm.

"I had the concierge light a fire in our room," she said.

"Our room?" That sounded nice.

"Room 6c. It's up the stairs and three doors down."

Within minutes, we were naked in bed. Dee fulfilled every promise made by her full-bodied reputation.

One hour later, she left to take a cab to her sorority house. I barely remember her leaving. I'll never forget the smile on MY face.

Who's a virgin? Not I! I thought, as I passed out.

The next day, I sent Dee a dozen roses. I called her three or four times to get together again, but she was never there when I called. I eventually got the message.

The one night rule applied to me.

***

 

"Oh...Oh god...Ooh Oh God...Oh...Oh...Oh...Oh God...Oh yeah right there Oh! Oh...Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes...Oh...Oh...Yes Yes Yes....Oh...Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes...Oh...Oh... Oh... Oh God Oh... Oh... Huh..."

Sam forced all of us to watch a home movie of my birth. My mother sounded like she was having an orgasm. I was intended to be the first of many babies. As it turned out, Sam never remarried and I was the only child.

"You see Diane, having a baby isn't so bad," Sam said. He, along with George and I, were attempting to console her. Diane had been wailing since she and her dad walked in the door.

Diane had been feeling ill when she got home from college for Christmas vacation. She'd missed a period. As she had been very regular, she went to her gynecologist. He was less than tactful when he broke the news to her of her 'delicate' condition. When Diane became hysterical in his office, he was afraid to allow her to drive home in her distressed state.

He called her father. Diane told George about my being the father. They came straight over to our home.

For an hour George, Sam and I did our best to stop Diane's howling, but she seemed inconsolable.

Unable to cope with the abject humiliation, I spent most of the time counting the books on the shelves (116) and the panels of glass in the study windows (229).

As I emerged, the film came to an end… much to the relief of everyone in the room. I wondered if Sam had forgotten. Mom suffered from post-partum depression and committed suicide less than a month after my birth.

Diane's sobs became muffled, permitting me to ask my only question, "How do you know it's mine?"

"Steve! How could you? You know very well I was a virgin before you seduced me."

Sometimes the big lie worked the best. Heck, even I almost believed her. George and Sam took to her ingénue act like caribe to fresh meat. Believing her represented the line of least resistance. I could be counted on to do my manly duty.

Dee didn't respect me. I didn't have the capacity to hurt her. I begrudgingly admired her talent for lying, but I never would trust her again. Propriety demanded that we be polite to one another even in this darkest hour, which in itself was hypocrisy.

It was obvious her dad thought a marriage between our families was superb. 'Dee', as all from that day forward knew her, had only one concern. She didn't want a baby to ruin her political career. Sam assured her that a baby was more of an asset to her career than a liability. He joked about giving her a senator's seat as a wedding gift.

Sam long ago taught me it's better to lose your saddle through compromise, than to lose your horse. I was going to be forced to marry a beautiful liar. She wasn't a bad catch. I loved babies. Being a dad would suit me.

I'd finally called Linda before coming home for break. She had a gift for making you feel comfortable with yourself. We attended a Greenpeace rally together in New York. She was majoring in environmental studies. We spent several wonderful hours tramping around the arboretum on her campus. I agreed with her hankering to save what we could of the Earth. We kissed goodnight. We were more than just friends. She was like a favorite book I wanted to read again and again. I had planned to spend Christmas break, and maybe my entire life, getting to know her better, but life isn't always just or predictable.

The wedding took place on a drizzly February afternoon, under heavy clouds. It was a quiet affair with only seven attendees. Dee didn't want to invite guests. She said she wouldn't have known where to stop. After the ceremony, in a rare display of physical contact for him, Sam gave Dee a long, warm embrace to welcome her to our family.

We had a honeymoon weekend in New York. The sex was good and our relationship cordial. I assumed that eventually we'd love one another.

Faced with the oncoming responsibilities of a child, we poured ourselves into our studies. Marriage tends to remove you from your single friends. But, we went far beyond that to isolate ourselves from our high school friends, other than Linda. I hadn't realized the depth of the relationship between the two. Dee often mentioned how important Linda would be to her political career.

Dee was eager to move forward. Consequently, she spent her time with her influential sorority sisters.

One Thursday afternoon in May, amidst the blossoming cherry trees and chirping of the songbirds that had just returned from the south, Dee suffered an episode of toxemia and then a miscarriage. It was during the sixth month of her pregnancy. The doctor said our daughter was 'still born'. We had Sara Jayne Rasch engraved on a tiny gravestone.

Dee's doctor advised against future pregnancies due to Dee's severe episode of preclampsia. According to him, while other women might simply have swollen feet, visual problems or headaches, Dee was subject to internal bleeding and very high blood pressure. There was a distinct possibility of a fatal seizure. All of this was attributable to some sort of problem with Dee's kidneys. As long as she didn't get pregnant again, she would most likely live a long and normal life.

Future pregnancies out of the question, Dee had her tubes tied.

Our marriage limped forward as Dee's political star rose toward the Potomac skies.

 

Chapter Three

Dee stayed at Bryn Mawr College, living in her sorority, while I finished up at Harvard in my dorm. We were with each other most weekends. On breaks we lived in my father's house.

I was able to graduate in 3 years, by taking a heavy course load. My degree was in political science (as mandated by Dee) with a minor in journalism. My journalism minor pleased no one but me. However, it prepared me for my career as a political columnist. Which also pleased no one but me. Sam wanted me to go to Harvard Law, but I'd seen what good lawyers do to ruin people's lives. Let me rephrase that, I'd seen what a crafty lawyer could do. There are no 'good' lawyers.

For eight years after college, Dee was a stalwart foot soldier in the Republican Party. She attended every caucus, town rally, rubber chicken banquet, roast or late night planning session held within a hundred miles of our home. Dee knew every ward or precinct chairperson. She raised more money for the Party than the GNP of many small nations.

Dee made herself available to charities. She did a lot of good work for the unfortunate. Unfortunately, she was like a hen, in that every time she laid an egg for the poor, she cackled to tell the world.

Sam and she called in every favor available. She received the party's nomination and was on the ballot for senator.

It would be her first elected office. She had run a very good race, but trailed in the polls. It appeared her age was an issue. If she won, she would be the youngest-ever elected senator. The constitution requires a senator to be at least 30 years old.

Linda was her campaign manager. They'd been working toward her election for years. After college, Linda took a position with Greenpeace and worked industriously on many of the same causes she supported in high school and college. She quit Greenpeace to help Dee. For a year, the two studied the best practices of successful political campaigns. They hired several consultants to personally train them.

Linda had some lofty aspirations for when 'they' got to Washington. Dee had promised Linda that 'they' would make a difference. 'They' will establish fervor in Washington for environmental issues.

Linda and I had never spoken about what might have been. She had been Dee's bridesmaid and personal attendant, making such a discussion uncouth. Besides, it appeared any love that might have existed between Linda and me had been my imagination. She was a great friend for Dee and me.

Over the years, Dee's sorority sisters have been deeply involved in her run for office. Hardly a week went by that we didn't host a Phyllis Stine's meeting in our home. They taught Dee to use her style as a magic wand, turning everything she touched into gold.

Linda and Dee were out of town on the campaign trail. I didn't have the energy to go along. I've been pushing myself too hard for months. My political column had been very demanding of my time.

Not to have to deal with a conflict of interest, my paper agreed I wouldn't cover the senatorial race. As part of that agreement, I wrote a few human-interest articles about being the husband of the candidate. I really didn't like writing that kind of fluff piece. Writing it was relatively painless and the paper buried the story deep enough so as not to taint my career.

Not that I was a great writer. I worked hard at my craft, putting in long hours on research. My work suffered because I was such a curmudgeon, using my word processor to vent my ire at other's faults. I wasn't even sure of the source of my anger.

I'd been ill four days with the flu. Several hours after they left for the weekend, the fever had broken. When I woke eight hours later, my pajamas and sheets were clammy from the sweat that had poured from my body.

A shave, shower, several minutes of scrubbing away plaque with a toothbrush and I was a new person. I was on the mend, but needed to get back to bed. I stripped off the damp sheets and put on clean ones. No one ever taught me how to make a bed. Drawback #6,837,662 of being a motherless child. We had a maid that took care of the hospital corners for us. She was on vacation. I was alone in the house.

There were no clean pajamas in my drawer. The room was chilly… too much A/C. I had to find something. I'd given Dee some silk pajamas for Christmas a few years back. She'd never worn them. We were about the same size. I looked in her bottom drawer, found them and slipped them on. Other than the shirt being a little big, they fit nicely.

As I closed my eyes to sleep, I sensed how agreeable the pajamas felt. I was dressed in women's clothing for the first time in my life! Dee's dresser drawers were perfumed. The sacheted pajamas smelled like the softer, sweeter side of her. I became aroused, despite my weakened physical condition.

I'd many times thought about dressing as a woman. It was a favorite late night fantasy. However, I'd done nothing about it. Dee was pretty straight-laced when it came to sex and lifestyles. She wouldn't take kindly to that sort of thing.

The pajamas were ivory silk with a rose sheen and a heavy dose of needlework around the collar. I wasn't able to sleep in my titillated condition. I pulled back the covers. Other than a tent in my bottoms, where my cock was creating a stir, I looked quite feminine. Even my feet peeking out from the embroidered cuffs had a feminine quality.

I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom mirror. My hair was curly and fluffed. It always was like that in the mornings, before I pulled it back into a low, male ponytail for the day.

The image in the mirror was a woman.

It took great effort to pull myself away from my reflection. My skin was rough and dry. I'd been spending a lot of time in our hot tub. Dee had a bottle of body lotion on the counter. For the next several minutes, I sat on the bed rubbing the lotion into my legs and arms. The lotion had a nice, sweet smell that wasn't overbearing.

The impact of the perfume, the silken pajamas and the self-administered massage had my body on sensory overload. Everything I knew was at war with what I wanted.

I pulled my pajama bottoms down just past my knees, not wanting to take them off completely. My knees spread as I remembered thoughts of junior high classmates, girls I wanted to date, but didn't know how to ask… their tight jeans and tube tops. How would have I looked in their revealing clothes?

I wished my tits were full… ripe… and my hips were plump.

I could feel the silky pajama pants, pinning my feet together. I caressed my rod with my familiar right hand. My left hand worked its way under my satiny top to tweak my nipples. My chest was surprisingly sensitive. I licked my lips and yearned for someone to kiss.

I toyed with myself, wanting to stay bestired forever. I was inside of me… prodding…poking. My mind raced with the possibilities of increased femininity. Make-up. Panties. A bra. I concentrated on 'his' cock, squeezed, fondled… at the same time I gave separate but equal attention to my breasts…. I could stand it no longer. I exploded in the joy of sex. It was a 'semen-all' experience.

For about a minute I couldn't move, didn't want to move …basking in the glow of post-coitus rapture. I loathed moving either hand… but eventually had to. Reaching in the nightstand, I located a box of Kleenex and cleaned myself of my spilt seeds.

Finally drowsy… I pulled my pajamas up and slid under the covers. I closed my eyes and slept for nearly seven hours.

When I woke, I was surprised at what I was wearing. The whole episode seemed like a dream. I stretched and became more than I was.

In the bathroom mirror was a disheveled woman. I ran a brush through my tangled curls. Damn… it seemed like I was finding more and more of my hair in my brush.

I thought of the solo sex I'd had and the possibility of a second encounter, but there was too much reality in the room. Dee would be back in the morning. I washed and dried her clothes and eliminated all the evidence of my 'crime'.

I tried to use the computer in my home office to write my column. It was due the next morning. All I could do was stare at the screen and ponder what I'd become.

A transvestite.

Of course, I'd never wear woman's clothing again, so I wasn't really a transvestite. It had been an experiment.

 

Chapter Four

"I won't do it."

"Steve, Dee needs you. This is a chance for you to do something special, something only you can do, for the campaign."

Linda never asked much of me. She respected my journalistic integrity and left me out of the campaign. I'd taken part when it didn't seem to be too much of a conflict, attending rallies and being in the background for Dee at the convention. But, I couldn't do what Linda was asking me to do. "This is too much. I will NOT take part in a beauty pageant just to win a few votes."

We were having lunch together at Angelo's off Highway 45. It was a warm, early August afternoon. The bright greens of spring had yet to give way to the ripened golds and reds of fall.

Despite everything, Dee, Linda, Sam and the Phyllis Stine's had done, Dee hadn't moved up in the polls.

It was very disturbing. Dee had seven opponents (there were two minor party candidates who were gathering 5 – 10% of the vote each). All had platforms that weren't in the best interest of the Illinois voters. The incumbent had a horrible record on environmental issues. He'd sold out to the oil people, been an enemy of forest protection, was in favor of genetic engineering, a proponent of nuclear energy and seemed to be in the pocket of the chemical manufacturers. Yet, the voters flocked to him because he looked good with his pinstripes and silver hair. Very senatorial. All show… no go.

Democracy is based on the sometimes-inaccurate assumption that the masses know what they want. Unfortunately, they many times deserve what they get for their ignorance.

The election was over three months off. For the first time in her life, someone else's style was beating Dee. She needed something to collar the imagination of the voters.

The format for a beauty contest was prepared nearly two years ago. It was an attempt by the League of Women Voters to say something about the superficial nature of elections. They wanted to shame the voters into actually making an informed decision. They'd have the top-four senate candidates' spouses take part in a beauty contest. It was their way to suggest a 'beauty contest' was all elections amounted to, if the electorate wasn't informed. During the 'pageant', the candidates would engage in a real debate. Ironically, this august body of females didn't plan for the possibility of a female senate candidate.

A TV station with a statewide viewing audience bought into the concept and was scheduled to televise the pageant/debate two weeks before the election. People were to call in and vote with contributions to decide the winner of the pageant. Each dollar pledged would count as one vote. The proceeds, expected to be in the area of $200,000 - $300,000, would go to cancer research. The National Cancer Association was promoting the idea, hoping they could replicate the fundraising effort in other states.

The TV station intended to use their Public Service Announcement obligations to advertise the event. They planned to blanket the airways to build a large audience. They would use ads during the actual broadcast to promo their fall lineup.

Everyone should win. Except me.

The rules were specific as to what talents could be displayed. Every 'woman' was to do the same song and dance number, "Stand by Your Man". Each contestant was to wear a floor length evening gown. Heels were to be at least two inches and couldn't be more the three. There were even strict guidelines as to how little and how much jewelry could be worn. The rules stipulated all contestants were to wear earrings designed for pierced ears (supposedly for safety during the dance numbers.)

Dee's opponents were demanding the rules be followed to the letter. All three stated they wouldn't take part if the rules were altered in any way to accommodate any candidate's spouse.

The other candidates seemed to think they were in a 'can't lose' situation.

If Dee declined to take part, she would come off as not caring about cancer. Such insensitivity to a worthy cause, would mortally wound her already weak campaign. As those whose spouses didn't participate in the beauty contest couldn't be in the debate, she would miss out on all the free airtime at a crucial moment in the campaign.

If I did take part, I would look like a fool. Dee would seem like an idiot for having married me.

Bad choices.

Linda had crafted a not-so-obvious alternative she was carefully placing in front of me.

"The free publicity will be worth millions," Linda said. "If you take part and make a good showing, we will win all the way around."

"Setting aside the obvious… that being I'm not remotely beautiful… how can my participation possibly help Dee?"

"Dee needs to seize the voters' attention. The Republicans gave her the nomination to keep Sam happy. No one gave her, or any of the other Republicans who ran in the primary, much of a chance to win against the incumbent. The party is giving her very limited support. Almost everything she's done to date is her own doing."

"I know she's spent a great deal of her family's money on this campaign," I said.

"More than seven million," Linda said. "Her father has cut her off. He's said she can't spend anymore of his money chasing what looks to be a pipedream."

It was just like George to put a price tag on Dee's happiness. Yet, I had to agree, she didn't appear to have much of a chance. Her campaign chest had about $250,000 left. Unless the polls moved in Dee's favor, the contributions would never increase. People will back a winner. Rarely will they give financial support to a losing cause.

"How does my public humiliation help her get votes?" I asked.

"You're not going to be humiliated… her opponents are."

"That sounds good, but more than a little miraculous." I said.

"No… it's going to be easy. Well… not easy, but it will work."

Linda sketched her plan. Dee would hold a press conference to delineate the position we were in with the rules and how her opponents had put us over a barrel. She would then announce that I would take part in the contest and would follow the rules to the letter. Finally, she'd predict my victory.

Dee would put egg on the face of her opponents. They would have to stand judgment for being so ruthless as to jeopardize this fundraiser for political expediency. Their intractable decisions allowed ill-considered policy to sit above conscience.

I would begin immediately on a program to become as beautiful as possible and develop a feminine song and dance style. If I could become remotely believable as a female and even slightly talented, the public would vote for me out of sympathy. With some luck, they might even develop some vote-swinging, righteous indignation over our opponents' political maneuvering.

"We'll have the TV station follow your progress with weekly reports. You'll be able to tell people again and again about Dee's stands on the issues. Nothing our opponents can do will generate this kind of interest."

Linda was so attractive when she got excited. Sometimes I wished things had been different. Dee and I have never really fallen in love. We were good friends and maybe that's all anyone had the right to expect from marriage. Having been raised by Sam, I was well aware you could exist in a world without love. I'd grown accustomed to and comfortable with Dee's brand of friendship.

Linda's gestures betrayed her exhilaration. They were much more expressive than the deliberate, controlled movements favored by Dee.

"How do you know you can pull this off?" I asked.

"I've already discussed it with the manager of the TV station. His mother died of cancer. When he heard what was going on, he was steamed. He loves the idea and will do his best to make sure your transformation is on the lips of everyone in the state."

"What about my job?" I asked. I worked 70 – 80 hour weeks. My column was very important to me I hated the idea of not writing, but was willing to make the sacrifice, if my job wouldn't be placed in jeopardy.

"Your boss loves to sell papers. If he's smart, he will not only give you time off, but will have you write a daily journal so his readers can follow your preparation."

Angelo's is a quiet, out of the way place, perfect for a tête-à-tête. I was surprised when Linda suggested the two of us meet there for lunch. Linda and I were never alone. I assumed Dee had Linda ask me to avoid the embarrassment of requesting such a thing of her husband. Dee isn't one to talk about such unbecoming matters.

"Is Dee 100% behind me wearing a dress on television?"

"At first she was totally opposed. You know she detests anyone or anything that is non-conformist. The idea of you stepping outside the role nature gave you didn't appeal to her. However, she charted her stars for that night. Her horoscope indicated she could make a very positive gain by trying something different."

Dee believed in astrology. The lie she told to our fathers about her sexual activity wasn't the only time she'd done something unethical. Blaming the stars was much easier for her than taking personal responsibility for her actions.

"How did you ever convince the station manager this would work?" I asked.

"I didn't. He convinced me."

Linda explained how the station manager envisioned the pageant as a modern "Battle of the Sexes". In 1973, there had been a tennis match called the Battle of the Sexes. Six-time women's Wimbledon champion, Billie Jean King, who advocated better pay for women tennis players, was challenged by a 55-year-old, male, chauvinistic, ex-tennis pro, Bobby Riggs. The match captured an international TV audience of over 40 million viewers. The hoopla surrounding the match was astounding.

"The station is going to ballyhoo this beauty contest. They'll have a lot at stake. If they can draw a huge market share, their fall programs will receive a very inexpensive boost in the ratings. Moreover, the station manager has been angered by the crass politics. He has taken this on as a personal issue."

What was I getting into? I'd successfully denied my cravings to try on more of Dee's clothes, since that day with her pajamas. However, things did change that day. Almost every night since, I'd gone to sleep thinking about how I'd look dressed as a woman. When I sniffed a comely lady's fragrance, I wished I could smell that good. I ached to have soft, satiny things of my own. The opportunity was being handed to me to dress fully and it really scared me. Would I be able to keep people from knowing my propensities? What would Dee think if she found out?

"Dee is very excited," Linda continued. "This is her big chance. This is what we need to get us to Washington. Once she's there we can work on the important things. Think of it as a necessary evil to do a tremendous amount of good."

A necessary evil. How true. Wearing woman's clothing might be as necessary to me as water or food. By using my imagination I've been able to get by… mentally dressing myself as I want. Would it be worth it to throw caution to the wind, just this once?

"I'll do it."

 

Chapter Five

The next morning, Dee held a press conference. Dee and I stood together at a podium in a Marriott Inn banquet room. We were serving a generous helping of very cold revenge.

As a reporter, it was odd to be on the other side of the microphone. The task was made easier by the overall upbeat tone of the questions. My fellow members of the press appreciated how we'd turned the tables on our opponents. They couldn't wait to see the look on the face of the incumbent when he got the word.

Everyone seemed supportive of me. To them, it appeared I was making a significant sacrifice for my wife and for charity. I was embarrassed with that characterization, knowing of my deep-down perverted motives.

After the press conference, Linda and I met with the station manager. He told us they'd scheduled five minutes every Thursday night on the six o'clock news for an 'update'. They wanted to keep their viewers involved in the story throughout my transition from hard-nose working journalist to beauty pageant contestant.

We stipulated that I would be able to work in 'plugs' for Dee's position on key issues. He agreed, but cautioned I had to make a bonafide effort to win the contest. He wanted the viewers to see distinct changes from week to week.

"Don't worry. With what we've planned, Steve's progress toward becoming a beauty queen will have everyone in the state tuning in," Linda said.

The station manager brought along a professional photographer who took several shots of me from a half-dozen angles. They would serve as the 'before' pictures in their print ads. They planned to promo the pageant and their news programs leading up to it with ads in newspapers and in the local TV listings. Hopefully, the 'after' pictures would not be the punch line to a very bad and tasteless joke.

Later, at campaign headquarters, Linda and I met with Dee. We sat at a card table on steel folding chairs sipping Dasani.

"What plans do you have to alter me into a contender for Miss America?" I asked.

"We don't have a clue what to do," Linda answered.

"That's not-at-all encouraging," I said.

"You better do a good job. Everything is dependent on you looking good the night of the contest," Dee said. "If you come across like some sort of drag queen, we're in big trouble. You have to look just like the other three contestants. You need to look like the senator's wife next door… not some big joke. If you screw up, my career as a politician is over."

No pressure there… Geezz!!!! Dee had a very funny way of being supportive. Come to think of it, that was the same lack of support I received from her for my writing. She rarely even read my column. If she did, she told me how she would've written it, or where I was wrong in my opinion. I couldn't remember her ever saying anything positive. In fact, she often told me I should try to get with a 'decent' newspaper where they had editors who could help 'fix' my articles and columns before the newsprint was pulled from the web.

Maybe she was right. I tried to fill my writing with information and insight. The more popular columns in the paper were much more amusing. Their pieces contained simple material all dressed up in clever writing. I called it putting lipstick on a hog. I worked 10 - 12 hours a day, seven days a week; kept my finger on the pulse of the political community. Some of the other more-widely-read writers got their material out of yesterday's headlines. There was a message there, if I was just smart enough to listen. Not me! Even though I lacked friends and readers who admired my work, I refused to cannibalize my heart.

"I want daily reports and pictures," Dee said. "Steve, if you know what's good for you, you'll give this your best effort… something new for you."

Linda and I sat in mutual embarrassment after Dee left. I knew our marriage was less than perfect, but I didn't think she would assail me quite like that… especially in front of Linda. In the past, she had said, "Steve, if only you…", followed by her latest plan for rectifying my image. Her expression of deep dissatisfaction was new.

"I'm so sorry Steve." Linda said.

"No, it's okay. She's stressed from the uphill battle of the campaign. I can deal with it." I knew better. Dee thrives on the competition. Like a true thoroughbred, she runs her fastest when she has other horses to catch up and outpace.

"We'd better get started. Do you have any ideas?" Linda asked.

"I've heard there are people in Chicago who transform men into woman for a fee."

"Are they legitimate?" Linda asked. "We can't get involved in anything too kinky."

"I don't have any idea what or who they are," I said. "We need help. If there are professionals out there, it would be great to find them."

We dug out the Chicago area Yellow Pages and checked for listings. It was quite by accident that we found "Transformation Services." I thought there might be something listed under 'Transvestites" and luckily saw "Transformations". There were quite a few in the directory.

Linda and I called several. Our priorities were discretion, location, length of time in business and willingness to provide references.

We narrowed our search to three and drove into the city for interviews. The last candidate we interviewed seemed to be the best.

Her name was Jezzi. She was a large woman… easily weighing over 200 pounds. She wasn't fat. She was VERY feminine. Her broad smile and the genuine warmth of her greeting prompted us to join her in tea and brownies.

"How long have you been dressing?" Jezzi asked once we were settled.

Linda giggled, as I turned red.

"I've never done this before," I answered.

"Now sweetie, you don't have to hide anything from me," Jezzi said. "With your cheekbones and sweet little body, it'd be a complete waste for you NOT to dress. You barely have any Adam's apple. Your forehead isn't too prominent and your chin has nice shape. Besides, I've been in this game for over 20 years. I can spot a cross dresser a mile away."

My mind was spinning. How could she tell? Was I that obvious? Who else knew about me? I hoped Linda believed my denial… and not Jezzi's accusation.

Thankfully, Linda stepped in and explained the entire situation… at least, the entire situation as she knew it. Jezzi frantically scribbled notes and pulled files from a drawer as Linda outlined what we wanted done. We needed an end product that looked like the average North Shore housewife.

Given that goal, Jezzi was our man… woman… man/woman. In contrast to the other two, who had severe cases of Cindi Lauper syndrome, Jezzi's understated makeup allowed her true colors to shine through.

Jezzi was instantly lovable… 'lovable' being a mixture of popularity and sex appeal. Her extremely kind face set you at ease, even in very peculiar situation. Her choice of locations was also reassuring. While the other two we visited were located above adult bookstores, Jezzi was in the backroom of an upscale salon.

The salon was very busy. There were about two-dozen women in smocks being attended to by at least four-dozen men and women in salon uniforms. Some of the women were having their hair done, others were getting manicures and several had something covering their face that looked like green mud. All of them were smiling and chatting as if they were best friends.

Jezzi's office was furnished like a French 18^th century drawing room. Although she didn't have authentic antiques, the replicas were nicely done. She had a Louis XVI provincial caned chaise lounge and a Louis XV five-piece salon set. The set consisted of four armchairs and a large canopy. Her desk was a small mahogany writing table.

"This is going to be fun," said Jezzi.

I had no problem believing her. My bigger problem was making sure it wasn't TOO much fun. The last thing I wanted was to expose my enthusiasm for what we were doing.

"There are seven areas of concern," Jezzi said. "All of those areas are centered on concealing the male identity and bringing the feminine qualities to the surface. The first is hair. You have very nice hair. It's a shame you're losing it."

Why does everyone have to remind me?

"I think you have enough left to work with for your training. We'll be using falls for the contest. I'll be right back." Jezzi went into the salon.

Linda took the opportunity to whisper, "We aren't going to let her cut your hair. You have beautiful hair and she's not going to mess with it." It was nice to hear Linda express that much concern.

"I was right. You're a golden brown," Jezzi held a clump of hair next to my head and said, "Uh huh", telling me it matched my hair color. "Of course, we need to treat your hair with some coloring to bring out its natural beauty."

"Then there's the hair you don't want. After the salon closes tonight I want you to come back. We'll fix your hair problem. I'll shape your eyebrows and we'll give you a full body wax." Jezzi grinned as I winced. "I'll even teach you the proper way to shave your face to get reeaallll close."

"The next thing we need to worry about is your face. A pretty face is the most important part of a woman's overall beauty. You have nice skin… small pores. I think your skin will accept makeup. Some people have skin that looks like cheap leather when you apply foundation."

Linda was nodding as she judged the quality of my skin. I felt like a prize hog at the state fair.

"Of course, we'll need to fill in what Mother Nature didn't and cover up what Mother Nature did. Most CD's I work with want to look like Dolly Parton. Dolly is one of a kind. The rest of us are better off looking like the rest of us. With your slight build, a B-cup should look very nice."

I glanced at Linda. She wasn't overly endowed, but I always thought of her as sexy. Linda looked back at me… smiled. I involuntarily blushed. Could she be reading my mind?

"We'll use a gaff to strap down your male equipment to give you a womanish front view." Jezzi smiled her condolences when another grimace flickered across my face. "Were not going to do anything permanent. It hurts a little at first, but you get used to it. What size trousers do you wear?"

"These I have on are 28 X 28."

Jezzi pulled a tape out of a drawer and measured my body in several places. She made more notes as she proceeded.

"With dieting and a good corset you will have a 23" waist. With a little padding here and there you will be 35-23-35." Jezzi seemed pleased with her projections and Linda nodded her agreement. "Let me hear you talk like a woman."

"I don't know how."

"Just give it a try, honey. No one's going to bite you." Jezzi patted my hand. It already seemed like there were three women in the room. I was one of them.

I opened my mouth and stretched my vocal chords to a pitch at least an octave above my normal timbre. "I this what you want to hear?"

"That's what they all do," Jezzi said to Linda. "Why do men think women sound like Minnie Mouse? Linda, say something please."

"I think Steve is being a very good sport." Linda said.

"Ah, there's a problem." Jezzi brightened like she'd just found a mathematical theorem for tri-secting any angle, one of math's oldest puzzles. "You need a name that matches your goal. You look like an Angela to me."

"Angela?" I said.

"Don't you like the name Angela?" asked Jezzi. "Is there an Angela you know that you don't like?"

"No, the only Angela I can think of is Angie Dickinson and I think she's great. I guess it's as good as any other name," I said. "Angela… It's a nice name. Angela. Angie. Angela. I can live with that. In fact, I love the name Angela. Come to think of it, my mother's middle name was Angeline." I was made both bionomial and matrionomial in one christening.

"Linda, say something to Angela," Jezzi said.

"Angela, I think you have a very pretty new name," Linda said.

"Now Angela, close your eyes and think of yourself as Angela. Once you ARE Angela, repeat what Linda said in the same tone of voice."

I tried what she said and the results didn't sound at all like Minnie Mouse. Unfortunately, I now sounded like MICKEY Mouse.

"We'll work on it, but you're off to a great start," Jezzi said. "The last area to work on will be the way you carry yourself. You're already graceful, so we'll just have to work on how you walk, sit and the way you hold your arms and hands. Much of that will come naturally as you become comfortable in dresses, heels and the correct undergarments. After you leave, I want you to immediately go to a couple of stores I've written down that have what you need. Once you've bought a few specialty items, you can shop in any women's store for a wardrobe. The only way we'll achieve the results you want is for you to dress as a female 24 hours a day, seven days week from now until the contest. Just dress in the same style as Linda dresses… you'll be fine. I'm sure she can help you select colors."

Linda assured Jezzi we were willing to hire her full-time for the next ten weeks. I agreed 'begrudgingly' to stay in women's clothes full-time for the sake of winning the contest. Jezzi warned me that what I wore to bed at night would be equally important to what I wore during the day. The more 'femme' the better.

"There are a few other things… only about a million more." She chuckled, "Don't worry!!! Most of my customers want perfection after one six-hour session. If you're willing to work hard, we can have two six-hour sessions every day for the next ten weeks. At the end of that time, you will be more feminine than 99% of the women on State Street."

"Jezzi, what about later on… once this is over, can I go back to how I am right now?"

"If you want to, honey. If you want to."

 

Chapter Six

We hit the ground running and never turned back.

Within hours, Linda and I spent over $4,000 on clothes, cosmetics and other items I needed. At first, it all felt too strange to handle… especially the first time I got fully clothed as a woman.

Linda prepared me as much as she could during our shopping spree. She had me study the other women in the stores. She 'rated' every woman we saw on a scale of one to ten. Five was the level of femininity Linda thought I could achieve simply by putting on proper makeup and clothing. A '10' (like the Bo Derek movie) was the ideal we would try to achieve… a level where I would have a good chance at winning the beauty contest. A '1" was a woman without any feminine traits whatsoever.

As we went from store to store in the mall, I was amazed at all the 2's, 3's and 4's. There weren't many 8's or 9's. Quite a lot of 7's. We didn't see any 1's or 10's. (I thought Linda should have given herself a 10, but I didn't think it proper to tell her so.) By the time we had completed our shopping spree, I was convinced passing as a woman wasn't going to be impossible.

Linda turned over her daily responsibilities for Dee's campaign to her assistant and worked with me full-time. Everyone agreed she could help Dee's chances most by making sure I did my job. Sam and the Phyllis Stine's didn't give me much of a chance. However, everyone agreed it was Dee's only possibility of winning… short of the incumbent getting caught with a girl scout the week before the election.

With Linda's support and Jezzi's expertise, I quickly became very comfortable. Acting on Jezzi's instructions, Linda and I went out in public together at least four hours a day.

I was up every day at 5:00, lessons with Jezzi started at 7:00. At 1:00 Linda and I went to a private gym for aerobics designed to reduce my waist and increase my flexibility. By 3:00 (after a meager sack lunch) we were back with Jezzi for another session until 9:00, when Linda and I would go to a restaurant together. We went to a different restaurant every night to offer me a variety of experiences.

Jezzi was a very sweet Henry Higgins to my Mid-western U.S. Liza Doolittle. Hour after hour, she shaped me into the ideal she had visualized during our first meeting.

I spent so much time in Jezzi's office; I had every square inch memorized. There was a picture of a high school football player on the wall that I first thought was Jezzi's son. After a few weeks of looking at it, I realized the uniform style and helmet were from years ago. The boy in the picture was Jezzi. There were many, many pictures of Jezzi and her family. They were mixed. In half, she was wearing female clothing. The images of Jezzi with her family presented a beautiful soul, open and ready for all things.

Jezzi had her college diplomas on the wall (her praenomen was Robert). She had a Masters degree in clinical psychology. She told us her story of burnout due to losing so many transgendered patients to suicide. She gave up her practice to do something to help them more.

For the first few years, she taught in a junior high school and did transformations in the evenings. Her business quickly grew. She realized she could help more needy TG's (as she called them) if she did transformations full-time. She still 'subs' at the school occasionally.

Jezzi once said to me, "It's not enough to do good things, you have to do them the right way."

Often, while I practiced movements or speech, Linda and Jezzi huddled in the corner. I could tell they were talking about me, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. When I asked Linda about it, she smiled and told me it was just 'girl' talk.

From what I did manage to hear, I learned a lot about Linda I hadn't known. When she could, she spent a great deal of time with her two brothers and three sisters. She became very animated when she discussed her nephews and nieces with Jezzi. Linda loved to baby-sit. She also was an avid snowboarder, talking of heli-snowcats in Utah.

Jezzi had us come in the front door of the salon. Once a week, I'd get 'the works' from their staff. They taught me to do my own 'second skin' and hair.

After the first four weeks, we cut the time I was with Jezzi to seven hours a day. Linda found a private tutor to work with me on my song and dance number. I'd never 'danced' before. Due to my high school sports, teaching my body to do things wasn't entirely new. Gracefulness is to the body what understanding is to the mind. All those extra-curricular activities in high school weren't a total waste.

The dancing was physically exhausting, but the singing was an even bigger challenge. Jezzi had quickly taught me to speak in my new voice, which I used 24/7. Singing as an alto was something entirely different. Thankfully, I would be using a good sound system, so I didn't have to 'belt out' my song.

Linda, Jezzi and I were constantly promoting the good and happiness in one another. In direct contrast, were the times I spent with Dee. She seemed conflicted by Angela's progress. She adamantly refused to call me by any name but Steve. We weren't having sex that often before I started this escapade. Once I started wearing nighties to bed, Dee would have nothing to do with me. She said it was all too bizarre for her to handle.

I was sure she knew my innermost thoughts. I didn't even try to fake embarrassment about what I was doing. Knowing she recognized my enjoyment was humiliating, but I was stuck in a monkey trap.

My physical contact with other human beings was almost entirely limited to when my dance instructor or Jezzi corrected my posture by physically moving my arms or legs to the proper position.

I also had contact with Linda. She'd taken to hugging me when we met each day. I looked forward to it with anticipation. We also air-kissed each other, like sisters. Linda thought Angela should do everything girls do. We had almost no free time, so Linda was with me 18 hours a day. The more I saw of her, the more I appreciated the depth of her concern for the environment. The truth of her convictions was contagious.

Linda sought out those that didn't seem to care. They were easy to spot. They filled their lives with a watery stew of Fox Network 'reality' programs. Over time, she either wrote them off or enlisted them to fight for her causes. In her eyes, the essence of inhumanity was indifference.

One night we had a rare evening off. Jezzi had a family function she couldn't miss. Linda and I rented a video, "The American President". Linda sat only a few feet from me in our living room. I was amazed by how much she looked like Annette Benning. The movie was very sad in parts and we both cried freely.

Jezzi and Linda were putting me through dozens of drills and mental exercises designed to release my emotions. They thought I'd be much more expressive and convincing the night of the contest if I wasn't afraid to be sensitive.

Each night before bed, I went through a beauty regimen. Dressed in a slinky negligee, I lotioned off my makeup and lavished on night creams and body lotions to soften my skin. When she saw I was ready for bed, Dee quickly switched off the light on her bed stand and turned her back to me. I suppose it embarrassed her to sleep with me, as long as I looked and acted like a woman.

Rarely did Dee have a positive comment for what I was doing for her. She set a high priority on my being successful in the contest and was quick to criticize even the slightest masculine behavior. We only had a few moments together each day and those didn't go well.

The paper asked me to write a transition diary. After consideration, I declined. To do a good piece, I would have had to expose my feelings to the reader. I couldn't do that honestly without showing my true self. I couldn't let people know who (or what) I really was for the sake of my future as a writer, my relationship with my family and Dee's campaign.

Most nights, I dreamt of being dressed as a woman. I wasn't a woman in my dreams. I was definitely a man in women's clothing. Some nights my dreams would have me courted by Dee, ending in passionate sex. I always had very positive experiences in my dreams. During the day, my extensive feminization continued. At times, it was hard to tell where my dreams ended and 'reality' started. If you could call what I was doing 'reality'.

The weekly TV interview was upbeat and positive. The station managed to make them funny and compelling. They conducted an online survey each week. The viewing audience was divided between about 75% who thought I was a great husband to do this for my wife and the other 25% who found me repulsive. Each week the percentage of detractors went down.

The station received a number of very disturbing letters and emails. In response to the blind hate, the station aired several related commentaries on 'How to Combat Prejudice'. My transition for the contest became a focal point for real and positive change in the Chicago area.

Dee's numbers in the polls improved drastically. The station was very good at allowing me to talk about her platform. Her opponents requested equal time. The station manager said each and every candidate that wanted to go through what I was doing could have the same amount of time they were giving me.

As Dee's poll results improved, the donations to her campaign also picked up. With those donations, she bought more airtime for her ads, which brought in more donations and better poll results. It was the kind of positive spiral all politicians dream about. George kicked in another $3 million.

(continued)

 

 

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© 2003 by Jill M.I. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.