Heels & the Female Impersonator

by Deane Christopher

deanechris5@msn.com

 

Preface: Magical High Heels, A Primer

The following story is set in my Heels Universe, in which a magical pair of high heels allows a man to become an anatomically correct female on an elective part time bases. For those who are familiar with how the heels work, please feel free to skip down to the story itself. However, for those who are either unfamiliar with how the heels function, or wish to reacquaint themselves with the particulars, I offer the following summary.

As a hobby, Zebulon and Valentina Castigetta produce magical, U-throated, black kidskin pumps. Zebulon (Zeb), a retired shoemaker, actually manufactures the stylish and ever so petite feminine footwear, while his wife, Valentina (Val), a gypsy witch, imbues the stilettos with the magical wherewithal necessary to temporarily turn a male into a female. During the process of investing the heels with the metaphysical wherewithal to turn a man into a woman, Val charges them with the prime directive to enrich the life of the intended recipient.

Castigetta fashioned heels can be identified by a small-stylized 'Z' stamped into the heel cap of each pump. Once a pair of their rather unique high heels comes into the possession of the intended recipient, Val, an avowed voyeur, employs a crystal ball to keep abreast of what is transpiring in the recipient's life.

While the manner of delivery tends to vary with each recipient, once the target beneficiary takes possession of the magical pumps, the heels begin to exert a subliminal, yet ever so compelling inducement to for the recipient to try the extremely petite and distinctly feminine footwear on. When the male recipient finally gives into the seductive lure of the heels and tries to cram his manly feet into the into the constrictive maw of the heels, he is both shocked and surprised to find that shoes, though snug, do indeed fit comfortably. In fact, in most cases the recipient quickly comes to the realization that the heels are the most comfortable shoes he has ever worn. Having put on one shoe before the other, generally speaking the recipient also becomes aware of the fact that the pump gracing his foot is noticeably larger than the shoe he has yet to don, while the heel shod foot is a good deal smaller than his unshod foot.

Once the recipient dons the heels, he begins to take note of the fact that his male oriented clothing is beginning to radically, fluidly and progressively change into clothing more befitting a female. For instances, even as the recipient dons the heels, the shocks he is wearing will be magically transmogrify into nylons anklets; anklets that will in turn begin to flow sensually upwards towards his groin. In like manner, long before the recipient becomes aware of the fact that he is in the process of become a bona fide female: sweatpants might be changed into nylon/lycra leggings; men's jeans, into flattering, body-hugging and decidedly female designer jeans; trousers into either a pair of women's pants or some instances, a skirt.

Starting with the feet, femininity will flow upwards, progressively transforming the male recipient into a woman. In doing so, the heels will use the gentleman's own conception of feminine perfection as the basic blueprint for the finished product. That is to say that it if a six foot four Caucasian male recipient has a 'thing' for petite Asian women, the heels will initially transform him into a petite Asian woman. Succinctly put, the recipient will be sexually transmogrified into the physical personification of his own wet dreams.

Age, racial affiliation, height, complexion, body type, eye color, hair length, styling and hue, not to mention vocal inflexions are but a few of the physical attributes that can be altered during the recipient's male to female transformation. However, the heels' magic has two criteria that govern an individual's temporary sexual reassignment. The first of those is that the female that the recipient transmogrifies into must be beautiful. The second, as a woman, the recipient's age must fall within the span of average woman's menstruation cycle. That is to say that the heels will not allow the recipient to change himself into either a pre-menopausal girl or a post-menopausal woman. Added to that, though most recipients come to learn of this unique aspect of the heels' gender targeted magic through happenstance, they find that they have gained the ability to assume the physical characteristics of any woman that is: one, beautiful; and two, of an age that falls within an average woman's child bearing years.

Though it is easily manageable, there is one particular aspect of the heels' magic that new recipients find to be most disquieting. For every unit of time that a recipient accrues as a female while wearing the heels, he will spend a like amount of time as a woman once he removes them. For example, if a recipient were to spend an hour wearing the heels, once he removes them, he will spend another hour as a female before he changes back into his old manly self. This accrued penalty time is generally refereed to as Residual Girl Time.

Though many recipients remain ignorant of the fact, starting with the recipient's inaugural stint as a female, the heels begin a leeching process which slowly replicates the magical wherewithal that Valentina Castigetta has imbued the heels with within the metaphysical makeup of the recipient himself. That is to say that after using the heels to log a considerable amount of time as a member of the fairer sex, the recipient gains the inherent ability to change himself into a female without having to avail himself of the heels' magical potential. In like fashion, once the magical potential has been fully replicated, the recipient, should he elected to do so, can completely negate the pesky Residual Girl Time he has accrued during his stint as a female by a mere conscious wish to do so. By the same token, once the heels' magical potential has fully replicated itself, the recipient will find that he has also gained the ability to alter his female persona and accompanying attire to suit his whims.

Should a recipient of the magical high heels marry, the magic to change oneself into a member of the opposite sex begins to replicate itself within the metaphysical makeup of the recipient's spouse as well. This additional replication process requires a physical link in order to download its metaphysical machinations. Though any form of physical contact will serve as a link for the replication process, the primary link is through the act of sexual intercourse. Generally, this trickle-down metaphysical process takes several months to complete. It also should be noted that given the fact the magic's prime directive is to enrich the recipient's life, the spouse's magic abilities would remain forever subservient to those of the recipient. That is to say that even though the recipient's spouse could wield the magical potential that resides within her, the heels recipient's preferences would always carry more weight than would his wife's. For example, should the recipient's wife wished to change herself into a reasonable facsimile of Jenny McCarthy, but the heels recipient has something more in the line of a Victoria Silvstedt in mind, the recipient's spouse, whether she liked it or not, was going end up logging some time as Victoria Silvstedt's body-double. By the same token, if the heels recipient finds the prospect of serving as the female while engaging in heterosexual sex with his transsexualized wife abhorrent, his spouse will find herself unable to change herself into a male whenever such intimate and compromising situations present themselves.

 

Story: Heels & The Female Impersonator

Aware that he was cutting it short, Thomas Carlson walked into the vestibule of The Ridgeline Resort's rustically cabaret and asked to be directed to the manager. A few minutes later, having introduced himself, the cabaret manager, one Ms. Pamela Jordan, unable to hide her amusement, laughingly scoffed, "You're kidding me, right? There's no way a big burly guy like you could make it as a female impersonator. I mean, you look to me like the kind of guy that runs around with a Harley sticking out of his ass."

Though he knew it was a hard sell, Tom assured Pamela Jordan that he was indeed a female impersonated, adding in the next breath that he was there to fill in for their headliner who he understood was unable to perform due to a nasty cold.

"Yeah! Right!" Pamela Jordan scoffed.

Feeling as if she had been dupe by the booking agent in New York, Pamela was becoming increasingly agitated. She was also keenly aware that there was no way she could secure another act on such short notice. "And just how are you ever going be able to pass yourself off as a female with that Fu Manchu mustache of yours? Or, is it a fake?"

"No, it's the real deal alright. And as for passing myself off as a woman, I would say: that's my problem." Tom tersely replied. "Look, I know that I don't look the part, but I really am a female impersonator. And, if you give me half a chance, I'll be more than happy to prove it to you. In fact, though I'm just getting started in the business, I happen to think I'm might be the best female impersonator there ever was. So, here's the deal. If you like my act, you pay me. If you don't like my act, don't pay me. It's that simple. No hurt. No foul. There's no risk on your part."

Since she was up against the wall so to speak when it came to the evening's entertainment, Pamela Jordan did not have a whole lot of choice in the matter. It was Thomas Carlson or nothing. "Okay. You've got yourself a deal. But, you do realize that you're late. You were supposed to be here a couple hours ago."

"I'm afraid that couldn't be help. There was a bad pile up on the interstate..."

"Whatever..." Pamela cut him off short. "What can I do to expedite things, because you supposed to go on in twenty minutes."

+ + +

Though she pissed and moaned about it the whole time, Pamela took it upon herself to helped Tom carry in his prop and equipment cases. "Just these four case?" she was incredulous as she reached into Tom's van and picked up two of the cases. "You can't be serious. Where are all your costumes? I mean, you do wear costumes don't you?"

Hefting the case he was carrying in his left hand, Tom casually replied, "Yes, I do wear a lot of different costumes and if you must know, they're all in here."

"Okay. So where are all your wigs? I mean, given that you're practically bald, it's more or less a given that you've got have a whole bunch of wigs."

"Don't need 'em."

"Oh, This I've got a see..." Pamela, thinking that the booking agent in New York had pulled a fast one on her, was seething with anger, so much so that her sarcasm was showing.

Pamela, using a side hallway, led Tom backstage. "I guess you would like me to close the curtains?"

"Actually, I would prefer that you leave them open."

"Okay. It's your funeral. Now, is there anything else I can get for you."

"Yes. I would like a chair, armless if you have one. And, I would also like to talk to whoever handles your lighting and sound."

"That would be Mel. I'll see if I can find him for you..."

+ + +

In an effort on his part to look like a stagehand, Tom was dressed all in black. Black shirt. Black pants. Black shoes.

With Mel's help, he plugged his dual deck CD player and mice transponder into the stage's sound system. With that done, Tom next used a small remote control unit that would reside in the palm of his left hand throughout his performance to test out the set up. Thanks to Mel, the system worked like a charm. He then gave Mel an overview of what he look for in so far as the stage lighting was concerned. Mel, having worked with a lot of entertainers over the years, seemed to grasp what Tom wanted right off the bat.

Hefting two of the three unopened cases, Tom then nonchalantly walked out on the stage and began to assemble the several props he would be using for his act. The first unit he erected looked like an ultra-modern chrome arbor, in that it consisted of two gauzy panels stretched across two almost identical inter-connecting tubular seven by seven frames. What differentiated the rear frame from the front frame was the battery of mini-strobe lights that were mounted on the rear frame and were direct towards the inside of the gauzy panel mounted on the arbor's frontal frame. This was done so as to create a pulsating silhouette of anyone passing between the arbor's two parallel panels.

Once that assemble was complete, Tom quickly put together a coat stand and placed it to the side and a little to the rear of the gauze paneled arbor. With that accomplished he move to stage left where he collected his as yet unopened case and the chair he had requested that Pamela provide him with. "Okay, Mel! It's time to get this show on the road. So, when I get back out there, I want you to bring down the house lights and hit me with a spot."

Placing the chair stage center and the case he carried on the floor beside it, Tom stepped out of his shoes and began to unbutton his shirt. Once unbuttoned, Tom casually remove his shirt to reveal that he was wearing what appeared to be a glossy black, long sleeve nylon/lycra pullover, something akin to the kind of shirts that bicyclists and runners sometimes wear. Needless to say that the audience had become intrigued at this point in the proceedings, with many of them left to wonder just what in the hell the nut-job on stage thought he was doing. Having taken care in placing his shirt on the chrome coat rack that he had erected only moments before, he next unbuckled his belt and unzipped his zipper. Though some in the audience gasped as he began to remove his pants, it soon became apparent that he was wearing a pair of nylon/lycra running tights underneath them. Placing his pants on the coat rack, Tom unhurriedly walked back to the chair and sat down facing the expectant audience. Having taken a protracted moment to scan the audience, he reached over and opened the last of his four cases. From its innards, he extracted a pair of extremely petite, to be almost child-sized, stiletto heeled black kid leather opera pumps. Holding them up so that the audience could see them, Tom thumbed the remote to activate the all but unnoticeable mini-boom mice that ran along the line of his left jaw. "Small, aren't they?" his voice boomed out over the cabaret's sound system.

"Mel! Do you think that you could bring my mice down a tad? We certainly don't want to blow out anyone's eardrums tonight. Yeah! That's a lot better."

"Alright... As I was saying, they're awfully small aren't they? I'll wager that they're to small to fit most, if not all of the women who are here tonight. However, if there are any ladies present who would like to try to see if these heels of mine will fit you, please, feel free to join me up stage."

After a lot coaxing on his part, one woman, and a very petit woman at that, took Tom up on his offer to try on the pumps. However, though she gave it her best shot, she was unable to force those dainty and diminutive feet of hers into the open maw of the heels.

Having tried and failed, Tom, stating that he wore a man's size twelve in shoes asked the woman if she thought that he might have more success donning the heels than she had. Of course she emphatically declared that there was no way the pumps would ever fit him. However, even as the woman from the audience was making that declaration of hers, Tom placed the heels on the floor in front of him and adroitly slipped those manly size twelve's of his into first one and then the other of the heels.

"Well, isn't that something folks! They fit! But, then again, I am a professional."

With that, Tom asked the audience to join him in a big round of applause as a means to thank the woman for being such a good sport. Then, as the applause began to dwindle down, he directed her to return to the table where her husband awaited her.

Squatting, Tom closed the case and taking both it and the chair, set them alongside the coat rack so that they were out of the way. Returning to stage center, Tom began to pace back and forth as he launched into a very tongue-in-cheek explanation as to why he became a female impersonator in the first place.

"Good evening ladies and gentleman. My name is Tom Carlson and I am female impersonator. Now, I'll grant you that I probably don't strike a lot of you as the kind of guy who normally goes it for this kind of work, but it's like they say: if the shoes fits..."

Standing backstage besides the cabaret's light and soundman, Pamela Jordan gasped in amazement. "Mel, are my eyes deceiving me, or are his legs starting to look a hell of lot more like women's legs then they did just a few minutes ago?"

"Well..." Mel thoughtfully replied as he twisted two of the dial potentiometers on his light-board, bringing down the blue lights bathing the rearmost section of the stage and bringing up the red ones. "If your eyes are deceiving you, then so are mine. Because from where I sit, I have to say that his legs sure look like a pair of women's legs to me. Wow! Did you see that, Ms. Jordan? I'll be damned if his beer belly just up and flatten out!"

"Yes, you're right..." Pamela could not believe what she was seeing. "It most certainly did at that. Did you also notice that his waist is no where near as big as it was and added to that, his hips have widened widen considerably."

"Will you get a load of his ass! I here to tell you, Ms. Jordan. I've seen a lot of asses in my life and that ain't a man's ass."

"What can I say, Mel, save to say: when you're right you're right. I have to agree. That isn't a man's rump.

Having forgotten all about his light-board for the moment, Mel, mimicking a good portion of the cabaret's equally astonished audience, gapped open mouthed. "Oh, my God! I'll be damned if he isn't growing boobs!"

At that point in the proceedings, Tom extracted what appeared to be a scarf sized piece of glossy black nylon/lycra fabric from the waistband of the running tights he was wearing. Shaking it out, he located the bag-like garment's hem. Then, employing both of his hands, he quickly pulled the hood down own over his head. "Ladies and gentleman, there's no need to panic. Trust me! While I maybe a female impersonator, I'm not into bondage or S & M, or for the matter, anything that's overtly kinky. The hood just allows me to put the finishing touches on my makeup. Or, you could say, it allows me to my face on..."

As Tom said that, he thumbed the remote that resided in the palm of his left hand and so triggered the first track of the CD he used throughout his performance. Instantly, the music used for the overture for the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey began to play over the cabaret's sound system. Then, just as the well-known melody reached its crescendo point, Tom reached up and yanked off the hood she was wearing. As she did so, cascades of golden tresses fell about her shoulders, framing that angelically face of hers as it did so.

Even as the stunned audience began to respond with a rousing amount of applause, Pamela Jordan exclaimed, "Oh, my God, Mel! She's beautiful!"

"Yeah..." the soundman wholeheartedly agreed with his boss's assertion. "And she's got a body that won't quite. But, as fantastic as she looks, who the hell is she supposed to be? I mean, she doesn't look like any celebrity that I know."

Before Pamela had a chance to respond, Tom addressed that very point from center stage. "Ladies and gentleman, let me introduce myself. I'm Tammy, Tom's feminine alter ego." Pivoting to her right, Tammy began to circle back towards the open archway on the arbor's left side. As she did so, she continued on to say, "So, without any further ado, what do you say that we put the petal to the metal and get this show on the road?" And with that she stepped behind the arbor's gauzy front panel. As she passed within, her body broke the infrared beam that in turned triggered the battery of mini-strobes, which in turn created a pulsating silhouette of herself. By doing so, the audience could monitor her progress as she swiftly passed through the arbor. Though she entered the arbor in the guise of her feminine alter ego, Tammy, she exited the arbor as the spitting image of Shania Twain.

Pamela Jordan, having actually met the real Shania Twain on several occasions in the past, could not believe her eyes. "Damn! I don't have the faintest idea how he did that, but he sure the hell looks like Shania."

In the next moment, Tom, keying the second track on his CD, proved that she not only looked like Shania Twain, but sounded just like her as well, as she launched herself into a seamless rendition of Shania's song, 'Man! I Feel Like A Woman'.

As the song ended, Tammy in the guise of Shania, with an energetic bow and a wave to the appreciative audience, jauntily looped back around so as to re-enter the arbor, passing this time from right to left, instead of left to right the way she previously had. Exiting on the arbor's other side a second or so later as Marilyn Monroe. "Oh, my!" the Marilyn double sensually cooed. "This isn't right. I'm supposed to be doing Whitney Houston right now, not Marilyn Monroe. I'm sorry ladies and gentlemen. It seems I made a mistake. So, with your permission, let me correct that little faux pas of mine right now." With that said, Marilyn, with a wave of goodbye, turned about and headed back into the arbor only to emerge as Whitney Houston; who proceeded to awe the audience with a flawless rendition of 'The Greatest Love Of All'.

Dolly Parton, singing 'Here You Come Again', followed Whitney, who was in turn followed by Tina Turner, who wowed the crowd with a driving presentation of Credence Clearwater's 'Proud Mary'. Then, much like Marilyn had earlier in Tammy's performance; Catherine Zeta-Jones put in a quick cameo appearance. Britney Spears was next up, singing her hit, '...Baby One More Time'.

Thoroughly enjoying the show himself, the cabaret's light and soundman mused aloud, "This certainly is one hell of a show."

Pamela Jordan, who was not only thoroughly impressed, but also at a complete loss as to how to explain what was taking place on the stage, had to agree. There was no doubt about it. Thomas Carlson was, hands down, the best female impersonator she had ever seen.

"Do you have any idea how he's doing it?"

"No, Mel. I'm afraid I haven't a clue. In fact, given how dead-on his impersonations are, I'm not sure that he really isn't a woman. I mean to tell ya! For my money, he's got these women down pat."

Mariah Carey, signing 'Hero', replaced Britney on stage. At the conclusion of song, just as she was about to pass behind the arbor's front panel, Mariah stopped, turned to the face the audience and said, "Ladies and gentleman, I ask you to please put your hands together and welcome the one and only Madonna to the stage. A moment later Madonna bounded out of the arbor other side, and playing the enthusiastic crowd for all it was worth, sang her hit tune, 'Like A Prayer'. Faith Hill was the next to put in an appearance, singing her song, 'Breathe'.

At the conclusion of her song, Faith Hill took a moment to address the audience ere she, in her turn, surrendered the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, and those of you who have yet to figure out just which of those you happen to be, it is my pleasure to give you the one, the only, Cher! With so many songs to chose from, Cher opted to sing her 'We All Sleep Alone'.

Then, to conclude her performance, Tammy, a Celine Dion look-alike, sang an impeccable rendition of Celine's amazing song; 'It's All Coming Back To Me Now'.

Taking a well-deserved bow at the conclusion of her number, Celine darted back into the arbor only to emerge once again as Tom's feminine alter ego Tammy. Taking another bow and thanking the audience profusely, Tammy, employing a magician's slight-of-hand trick that she had worked very hard to master, plucked the black nylon/lycra hood seeming out of thin air. Saying that it was time to go, she donned the hood, taking special care to ensure that all of those golden tresses of hers were neatly tucked up under it. With that attended to, Tammy adroitly stepped out of the heels. Demurely, with all the grace and charm of a lady, she squatted and picked the stilettos. Then, with those so dainty and diminutive pumps dangling from her right hand, Tammy stepped off the stage and began to casually stroll about the tables where the cabaret's patrons sat wondering what was to occur next.

Even as he brought up the house lights a smidgen, an astonish Mel muttered, "Ms. Jordan, by any chance did you get a good look at her hands as she made her way off the stage?"

"Yes, Mel. I sure did," an equally perplexed Pamela Jordan replied. "And I take it that you took note of the fact that they looked like a pair of man's hands rather than woman's hands?"

"Yes, ma'am. I sure did." Mel, bringing up the house lights another notch or two, could not take his eyes off of the black clad figure that weaved a random path about the tables. "I'll be damned! Her boobs are gone."

"Yes," Pamela Jordan concurred with her soundman. "And it appears that he's getting her beer belly back."

"How the hell's he doing it?" Mel felt compelled to ask the obvious question.

"It beats me, Mel. But, I've got to admit that our Mr. Thomas Carlson has himself one hell of an act."

Having allowed the audience a slightly obstructed view of the better part of his transformation, Tom briskly made his way back to the cabaret's stage. As he manfully bounded onto the stage, he reached up and yanked off the hood, revealing to one and all that he was once again the man he had started off the show as. The audiences, aware that they had seen something that bordered on the phenomenal, exploded in another round of rousing applause.

Responding to the accolade he had juts received Tom once again thanked the audience. Then, as if in an afterthought, he continued on to say, "Ladies and gentleman, while I thoroughly enjoy being the man I was born to be, I have to admit that there are times when I relish the erotic thrill I receive out of being a woman. So, with your indulgence, I think I would like to spend the rest of the evening as Tammy." Having said that, Tom placed the stilettos on the stage and without wasting a moment, easily slipped one foot, followed immediately by the other, into the inviting maw of the heels. Briskly, with those heels of his clicking and a clacking, he circled back and re-entered the arbor. A second later, Tammy, this time wearing an extremely sexy tease-to-please cocktail dress, emerged from the arbor's opposite end.

With a wave to audience, Tammy said, "If anyone is interested in obtaining an autographed montage photograph of me in the guise of all the absolutely fabulous divas I portrayed in tonight's performance, I'll be out in the lobby for the next half an hour or so. So, please, feel free to come out and talk to me..."

An hour and a half later, using the excuse that she had to get backstage and repack her equipment, Tammy ended the last of a long line of conversations she had been engaging in with members of the cabaret's very appreciative audience. Catching Pamela Jordan's ear ere she made her way backstage, Tammy said, "So, what'ya think? Did you like my act well enough to pay me for it?"

"Oh, definitely!" with a smile broadening on her face, Pamela pleasantly replied. "In fact, I intend on getting a hold of your manager first thing tomorrow. I want to book you in here as soon as I can. But you are planning to stay the week out, aren't you? Or, at least until my present headliner starts feeling well enough to perform?"

Tammy, saying that she needed the exposure, replied that she would be more than happy to continue to fill in for the ailing headliner on the condition that Pamela would put her up at the resort for the duration of her stay. Assuring Tammy that she would be more than happy to fix her up with accommodations, Pamela suggested that after she attended to a few matters that required her attention, that the two of them have a nightcap together at resort's rustic taproom.

+ + +

Having taken a sip of her fuzzy naval, Pamela placed her glass back on the coaster and inquisitively asked, "Look, just between us girls, Tammy, how'ya do it? And where the hell is your partner, Tom? He wouldn't be laying low in your van right about now, would he?"

"Well..." Tammy warily began her replied. "To answer your last question first. I can assure you that Tom isn't hiding out in my van. The truth is that he's sitting right here in this booth across from you."

"Yeah! Right!" Pamela smirked as she took another sip of her drink. "And you really expect me to believe that you're him?"

"Actually, I don't give a damn what you believe," a tuckered out Tammy gruffly replied as she sampled the pina colada that she had ordered. "Tell you what! If you want proof, I'll give you proof," she continued on to say as she slipped her feet out of the heels. "When I tell you to blink, blink! All right? Blink!"

Pamela did as directed only to see Thomas Carlson, wearing the black nylon/lycra pullover, sitting across from her in the booth. "Holy shit! How the hell did you that?"

Having answered the very same question many times before, Tom simply replied with the truth. "Magic."

Disbelieving what had just occurred, Pamela countered, "You're shittin' me, right?"

"No. I'm not. And to prove that I'm not," Tom, turning his palms upward, extended his hands across the table, "take my hand in yours and when I say blink, you blink just like you did before. All right. Ready. Set. Blink."

Pamela did as directed only to find that when her eyes popped opened, she was grasping Tammy's soft and femininely structured hands instead of those manly and callous mitts of Tom's. "Oh, my God! You're a... You're a... You're a..." Pamela, unable to express herself, lamely stammered.

"A girl," Tammy, taking pity on Pamela, congenially offered.

"How?" a thoroughly flustered Pamela managed. "How did you do that?"

"I told you. Magic!"

+ + +

Though the pub closed its doors promptly at two, Pamela and Tammy, having found that they enjoyed one another's company, continued their conversation for another hour or so. Though they were both reluctant to do so, they decided that they had best call it a night. Making sure that the both the pub and the cabaret were locked, Pamela showed Tammy to her room and bid her a goodnight.

The next morning, a somewhat bleary-eyed Tammy woke and after a few minutes of indecision, reluctantly changed herself back into her natural male alter ego. Once dressed, Tom headed off to the resort's restaurant with the hope that he might still be able to get breakfast rather than something from the lunch menu. Luck was with him. Though it was just a little after eleven, his waitress informed Tom that he could still order from either the breakfast or lunch menus.

While he sipped his coffee waiting for his meal to arrive, Tom was startled when a familiar voice inquisitively intone, "You look a little lonesome sitting here all by yourself. Do you mind some company?"

Looking up into Pamela Jordan's eyes, a pleasantly surprised Tom replied, "No. Please do."

Though their conversation was a little strained in the beginning, by the time the two of them had finished with their meals, Tom and Pam had managed to re-establish the upbeat and free-flowing exchange that they had enjoyed the previous evening in the resort's taproom. Pam, saying that she had a few things that she needed to attend to first, but that it would take her no more than an hour to do so, suggested that if Tom were up for it, the two of them could spend the afternoon together. Tom, having never been to the Poconos before, readily agreed. On Pam's suggestion, the two of them spent the better part of the afternoon traipsing around Bushkill Falls.

As their afternoon together progressed, so too did their relationship. What started out as a casual friendship began to deepen into something else. Acting on the realization that she was sexual attracted to the burly female impersonator, Pam found that she could no longer restrain herself. Taking a calculated risk that he might harbor the same sort of feelings that she did, as the two of them stood on the boardwalk admiring one of Bushkill's secondary cascades, Pam reached over and gasped Tom's hand in hers. An hour later, having retraced their steps so that the two once again stood gazing up at Bushkill Falls proper, Tom upped the ante as he enfolded Pam in his arms and kissed full on the lips.

That evening, Tom put on another stellar performance, wowing the audience much as he had the night before. Afterwards, much as they had the pervious evening, once the cabaret had closed its doors for the evening, Pam and Tammy relocated to the resort's taproom for a nightcap.

Playfully, Pam seductively cooed, "You do realize that given what happened this afternoon, you won't be sleeping in your room tonight."

Tammy, pretending to not understand what Pam was implying, playfully teased, "I'm not? How come?"

"Because, silly, after that kiss this afternoon, I decided that tonight you will be sleeping in my room."

"Oh..." Tammy, playing the part of the dumb blonde to the tee, coyly responded. "So, where will you be sleeping?"

"Right next to you, silly? I think that you and I need to see where this new relationship of ours will take us."

Getting deadly serious for the moment, Tammy felt compelled to ask what was the crucial question for her, the question that could make or break what could foreseeable become a truly wonderful relationship. "One question, just who do you want to sleep with? Tammy? Tom? Or, one of those woman that I impersonate?"

"Dose it matter?"

"Yes!" Tammy, wanting nothing more than to make love to Pam, wasn't pussyfooting around. For some reason that she couldn't quite fathom, Pam's answer was the most important thing in the world to Tammy."

Know that the time for kidding was past, Pam reached over and taking both of Tammy's hands in her own, endeavored to speak as forthrightly as possible. "To be honest with you, Tammy, I want to sleep with both you and Tom. You see, after a lot of soul searching I have come to except the fact that I'm bisexual. And because I am, you my dear are the answer to my prayers. As for getting it on with a number of the women you impersonate, I hadn't given any thought to that particular aspect. But now that you mention it, as kinky and perverted as it might sound, it might be fun at that."

Aware that she may well have upset the proverbial apple cart, Pam ended her rather protracted answer by asking a question of her own. "So, have I passed your litmus test?"

"Actually, Pam, while I might be the answer to your prayers, you are without a doubt the answer to mine. You see, while I've always dreamed of getting it on with another woman, you know, while I'm a woman myself, I've never actually had the opportunity to do so. In other words, if all you were looking for was a lesbian relationship, that would have been perfectly fine by me. However, the fact that you are bisexual surpasses my wildest dreams, you know, as in it's the icing on the cake, so to speak..."

"Icing..." Pam impishly mused. "Now that's a rather novel idea. I mean, as trite as it might sound, I've tried whipped cream a few times, but I've never tried icing..."

Epilogue

Six months later, Pam quit her job at The Ridgeline Resort to become Tom's personal manger and booking agent. Four months after that, while Tom was performing out in Lake Tahoo, the two of them tied the knot.

  

  

  

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