It Brings On Many Changes

Jill M I

 

Prologue

The following examines a suicide from several perspectives, including first person, a friend, a wife, a daughter and a mother-in-law. Throughout the story are notes and comments from a psychiatrist. The story slips back and forth in time as indicated in the notes at the beginning of each chapter.

 

Chapter One – Psychiatrist

Monday, October 23, 2000

Michael K. Brousseau, MD

Patient #1280

Close File

 

IN TODAY’S MINNEAPOLIS STAR-TRIBUNE BUSINESS SECTION 10/23/00:

LOCAL BUSINESSMAN KILLED IN TRAGIC AUTO ACCIDENT.

CAR FALLS 300’ OFF MENDOTA BRIDGE

CLOSE FILE

 

Accident my ass… he took a header.

Too bad! Eventually he would have come back and been a paying patient for years. Transvestites are incurable.

That freak owes me for all those pictures he destroyed.

Maybe I should bill his estate. That would shake up a few people.

On the other hand, maybe I should just keep quiet and not attract a malpractice suit! Who knows what he told people about our last session.

I don’t really know he committed suicide. Suicide is such an irrational act. No one will ever really know if, or why he did it.

 

Chapter Two – David Gibson

Saturday, October 21, 2000

The morning sky was a civil war of menacing blues and somber grays. Graceful shafts of sunlight pierced the shallow fall overcast. Nature’s power prevailed, but her overhead presentation went unnoticed. Dread had sharpened my sight to see things underground, while I often missed the happiness in the skies.

In my almost new Toyota Camry’s trunk were three shopping bags. Each small sack pledged intense pleasure. They easily could have fit on the right front seat. I elected to keep them out of sight. There’s no similar option to exclude them from my thoughts.

Had I been aware, I would’ve seen a single Canada goose traveling toward a southern home. Canada geese flock for protection until they select a life-long mate. Biologists have recorded pairs together for decades. When one dies, the surviving goose will typically live by itself during a period of mourning. Many times it will never mate nor socialize with a flock again.

My day started at 4:50, as it has for several years. Most days I’m awake at 4:49 staring at the clock as the radio starts its babble. Within seconds, I’m assaulted by news of world champion pumpkins and terrorist strikes. The radio ‘personalities’ deliver the news of both with the same gravity. It’s left to the listener to decide what’s really important.

This was one morning I was happy to get out of bed. I’d dreamt of death, whose I don’t know.

The fifties brought Elvis, VP ‘Dick", the Russian Menace and Disneyland. My personal fifties are less colorful, introducing reduced metabolism and high cholesterol. Exercise is my mandatory life sentence. The electronic scoreboard on my Nordic Track measures heartbeat, calories consumed and elapsed exercise time. My time is never equal to a rich diet. Even restricted to less than 10 grams of daily saturated fat, I have to log 45 minutes a day of great-room skiing to maintain fitness.

Mindless exercise allows plenty of time for thinking. By 5:15 I knew it would be a full, active day. The brainwaves began behind and slightly above my eyes. There was something I was supposed to do... something important.

I went through the usual list of suspects; ideas for work, notions for birthdays, speculation about upcoming events. I smiled, thinking of the Wolves game with John tonight. John Doherty is my best friend. I suppose I’m going to have to "ooohh" and "aaahh" over his new car. He gets a new Audi every 2 – 3 years. They all look the same to me, but according to him every one is soooo much better than the last. He loves his toys. He has digital everything. I once had a principal in grade school that threatened us with a ‘sound thrashing’ if we broke the rules. I didn’t know what a ‘sound thrashing’ was until I watched a video on John’s home theatre.

We’ve known each other since high school, when we played basketball together. John and I were starting guards for a mediocre team. John wasn’t overly muscular. But he had a reputation of swift and true action if he felt you had violated his principles.

One basketball practice, the coach asked a rhetorical question right after John made a mistake in positioning for a play, "Can anyone here play better than that?" To everyone’s surprise one of the worst players on the team said, "I can do it coach, put me in John’s place." The coach must have wanted to make a point, as for the rest of the practice he had that ‘scrub’ play in John’s spot while John played on the reserve team.

After practice, we heard someone swearing a blue streak from the back of the locker room. Guys were always playing grab-ass on our team, snapping towels at bare bottoms, putting analgesic balm in another player’s jockstrap, etc. It wasn’t unusual to hear screams of pain. But, this sounded different, longer and louder than normal. The entire team moved toward the noise.

There was John and the dweeb that had taken his spot, in one of the bathroom stalls. John had him pinned against the wall with one hand, while he was calmly taking off the prick’s basketball shoes with the other. As the mouthy one squirmed, like vermin in a trap, John tossed the shoes into the nearest toilet. He then flushed several times, giving the Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars a thorough soaking.

The wiener was physically as big as John and looked to be stronger, but when John was angry he was unpredictable and unbeatable. His Jewish parents had escaped Nazi Germany and passed on to John a good deal of pent up frustration and anger.

Lisa, John and I were inseparable. We loved each other, but didn’t pair off until our senior year. Lisa was ‘the one’ for me. She’d drive me crazy with envy when she’d comment about ‘the girls’ loving John’s dark curly hair and a big-eyed innocence.

Our American history teacher made a comment about how Indians hunted for food. She said the Indians would hide in the tall grass and ‘play buffalo’. She meant they imitated buffalo, but John thought the clumsy way the teacher said it was very amusing. To John there was no such thing as carrying a joke too far. He talked Lisa and me into helping him invent a complex board game called ‘Buffalo’, which we subsequently ‘played’ many times. During those days together in high school, we would laugh uncontrollably. Laughter still comes easily for me around him.

It would be good to go to the game with John. He’s a walking basketball encyclopedia. I need an emotional lift. Lately, work is uninspiring. As bad as work is… life at home is sometimes even more of a downer. I need to drown myself in something as inconsequential as the NBA.

The itch in my amygdala has matured into a sharp desire; an expectation of enjoyment and satisfaction which could only stem from one source. After nearly four decades of crossdressing, the ‘itch’ was quite familiar.

For years, I’ve followed the advice of Joseph Campbell and ‘followed my bliss’. Some might label me compulsive. Others would say I’m egocentric. I suppose I am self-centered. Fulfilling my needs does jeopardize the welfare of my family.

I’m not sure what I’d do, if my crossdressing ever actually hurt my wife or kids.

For the moment, an all-consuming idea has entered my head and is revolving on a wheel I can’t control. These thoughts are focusing on quenching Pamela’s thirst.

Pamela is the female end of my gender spectrum. David (her contrasting ‘fraternal twin’) is the male end. The clothing I wear is appropriate for David 98% of the time. I spend the majority of my day thinking about (or preparing for) the other 2%.

It’s Saturday. I have only a few ‘David" things to do. The bulk of my morning will be spent on Pamela. While showering, I assemble a shopping list of wants. At the top of my list is a new lipstick. It’s late October. My skin’s darkened from long hours in our pool. I crave a Solar Coral lipstick to offset my tan, while it last. As I consider my fading summer glory and add a lighter shade of foundation and powder to my wish list.

I hate having to buy foundation and powder. The drugstore doesn’t display them in any logical order. The ivory powder can easily be right next to the dark beige. The heavy packaging makes it hard to know the actual shade you’re buying. I will have to suffer the embarrassment of searching through racks of bottles and compacts for the right shade. Bifocals add to the problem. David does not look like a woman. Any inconvenience that adds even seconds to my time in the cosmetic aisle is an invitation to disaster.

Lipstick is much easier to select. Color is such an impulse buy. Unfortunately, it never quite looks the same on your lips as it does on the plastic tips they put over the tubes in the store. Also, unless you’ve used the brand, you don’t know the texture or scent. Some taste terrible. Others feel like wax. Some smell bad. Thankfully (for this Goldilocks), many are just right! Walgreen’s!

Pamela could also use a nightie… something rose. What’s the use of having a tan if you don’t complement it with the right wardrobe? I’m thinking baby doll. All my good nighties are at least waltz length. I should get one before I’m doomed to another winter of ankle-length flannel. In truth, I’m merely looking for an excuse to buy something soft, pink and flimsy. Victoria’s Secret!

I’m also thinking about new cologne. I like to change my scent every few days. A few years ago, we had a problem with mold in our home leaving me with slightly impaired olfactory sense. By frequently varying fragrances, my body is more cognizant of my aroma. Marshall Field’s!

When dressed, I strive to feel as normal as possible. But, I want to be reminded constantly of my womanhood by dangly earrings, sweet aromas, silky textiles, etc. All play a role in my role. Is that any different than other females?

Not that there aren’t differences. David ‘needs’ things, treating possessions as something he has a right to own. Pamela is more likely to ‘want’, questioning her due.

By 6:30, I‘m ready to face the world. Pleasurable planning has played against a backdrop of the four horsemen of guilt; shame, secrecy, compulsivity and fear of discovery. Men are planets revolving around the sun of faith. Like planets, they all have their dark side. I know I’ll be sacrificing David’s self-esteem to please Pamela. I’m lonely with my internal conflict. We are a society that honors our rugged individualists and pillories all who dare to be openly unique.

I can hear Lisa a floor below. A bouquet of pancakes and bacon has wafted up the stairs. We’ve been married almost 30 years. If you subtract the time Pamela has come between us, we would not have yet celebrated our silver anniversary.

From the very first moment I saw Lisa, backlit by a picture window in her parents’ home, I loved her. She was beautiful already as a teenager, with her Peggy Lipton, long straight blond hair. As her character has come to the surface, she has become increasingly better looking.

Her head is filled with retirement accounts, passbooks, annuities, savings plans and other things that cause my eyes to gloss over. There’s moments I think my biggest value to her is a means to acquire money. To Lisa, money is a source of fulfillment. We don’t argue much about money. We make ‘enough’ so I can spend freely and she can save. What would life be like with her if we actually had economic adversity?

Our two boys are out of college and on their own. On their own... what a funny phrase. It probably should be ‘on their owed’ given all the debt we’ve incurred helping them through college.

Our daughter is still piling up debt for us at St. Ben’s women’s college. It’s only an hour’s drive. Jessica’s home more often than the others were at her age. It’s wonderful having a cygnet for a daughter, even when the young hunters circle our house. She’s engaged, but I still like to know where she goes and who’s with her.

I’m careful this morning to present a masculine image. It isn’t my intent to humiliate myself. Ostensibly the purchases will not be for me. Although they are. At times, Pamela is much more ‘me’ than David. Pamela has become stronger in character. She knows what she wants and how to sail through life. David’s endured compromises, staying within the stark guidelines of economic sanctions.

I’m a transvestite and this is the way being a transvestite is. I take life as it comes so I can better master it. At my age, life is unencumbered by ‘whys’. If I don’t know by now, I rarely care. Pamela’s needs are a mystery I will never unravel. Ours is not to reason why.My need to express Pamela can’t be denied. In the past, I’ve tried. There was a predictable cycle.

Build a wardrobe and cache of cosmetics

Hit a ‘bottom’ anchored down by remorse

Purge

Elation, celebrating my resolve to ‘better’ myself

Mourn for the amputated spirit

Despondency due to the huge hole in my ‘self’

Rage and sullenness

Build a wardrobe and cache of cosmetics

Now I just build and build.

By nature, I’m an introvert. My work demands that I set aside my shyness advancing the bluster of a restaurant owner. When I suffered the pains of withdrawal from femininity, I’d lose the energy needed to build my extrovert facade.

It’s not what comes our way, but the attitude we adopt that forges inner peace.

Jessica isn’t awake yet. She’s spending the weekend at home recuperating from mid-terms. Lisa is preparing breakfast for the two of them. For some reason, she’s allowing the teakettle to sing long enough and loud enough to be terribly annoying. As I’m Jack Sprat, and Lisa has the metabolism of a bird, we no longer share many meals.

"I’m going into the restaurant for a while, then I’ve got some things to do."

"When will you be back?" She intuitively knows I’m on my way to shop for Pamela, or she would have asked where I was going. Saturday is my shopping day. I usually go to Byerly’s grocery, Home Depot or Frank’s Nursery. When I go to one of these three, Lisa has a list for me.

"I should be home in 2 – 3 hours."

"Can you be back by 2:00? We’re going to Northfield this afternoon." Lisa’s parents live in Northfield. Lisa and Mary (her mother) have perfected their mother/daughter bond. Lisa’s mom was a teacher. She retired almost twenty years ago, but still is Our Miss Brooks. Did you ever notice how much Eve Arden looks like a Grandma Nancy Drew? Mary’s rendition of Eve Arden doesn’t include the sarcasm

"I’ll be ready to go to Northfield by 2:00. We have to be back by 6:00. I’m going to the Wolves game with John."

I have a bowl of oatmeal and a banana for breakfast. Someone should set Quaker Oats straight. If they’re going to market their cereal as a health food, the fat guy with the ruddy cheeks has to go!

Even though I’m in masculine mode, I’m wearing white cotton panties. Psychologists might say they’re a manifestation of my fetish. I’ve grown to like them for the comfort they provide. They don’t chaff like tightie-whities. Still, they provide a nice amount of support, lacking in the boxers favored by my sons. Years ago, wearing panties would have been a big turn-on. Now they’re merely soothing, like slipping on an old pair of shoes.

I don’t like the connotations of the word ‘fetish’. Traditionally a fetish was an amulet that provided magical protective powers. That definition has narrowed to an object that arouses emotional or psychic energy. Too much emphasis is now placed on the sexual libido and not enough on the pure psychic charge of a fetish. A smart dress has tremendous magical powers… ask anyone who wears one.

There was a time... however... when I wore a panty girdle to hide my erection while on a buying spree. Shopping trips are now much more comforting than stimulating.

Like David, Pamela has matured over the years. I’m no longer thrilled when I put on make-up. I’m merely pleased that my beauty hasn’t entirely faded. As I pull on a jacket, my hand brushes across an erect nipple that knows where it’s going. Old? Yes. But not dead.

"I’ll see ya later!" This is my way of telling Lisa I love her.

"I love you!" Lisa’s response is direct, and filled with larger meaning. Down deep, I think she loves the entire ‘me’.

I stop by the restaurant and do some strategic planning for the next few weeks. I’m in a very creative mode.

After an hour of work, I go to the drugstore, preparing a written list of items as I drive. A man buying cosmetics should do so from a written list. The unspoken testimony would be, "I’m getting these for my incapacitated wife." To complete this camouflage, I make the list very specific.

Not just lipstick... but:

Lipstick... Revlon... Really Red.

I also add enough man items to my list so as not to be too obvious. This morning’s list states:

Lipstick – Solar Coral – Max Factor

Foundation – Cover Girl – Warm Beige

Powder – Cover Girl – Warm Beige

Shaving cream

Razor blades

Toothpaste

Deodorant – Ban – Powder Fresh

Shampoo

Nail Files

Conditioner

I’m using one of the store’s little red shopping baskets. Even though I pass by the cosmetics aisle on my way to the shaving cream and razors, I first select the guy things. As a precaution, I’d driven to a drugstore several miles from our home. It’s a small world. I don’t want someone I know to see me, stop for a chat and see a tube of lipstick sitting by itself in my basket. Not only do I want to avoid embarrassment or humiliation, I don’t want to cause others to feel uncomfortable. I want to give everyone the opportunity to think good things, or nothing at all.

Once the ‘Noxzema Shaving Cream for Sensitive Skin’ is in my basket, I move to the cosmetics area. The swatches of pastels and the sensual aroma fascinate me. At one time, simply walking into this area of the store had been sexually stimulating.

When I was a child, The Disney Hour was on TV on Sunday nights. The show opened with Tinkerbell choosing what type of program they would present. The choices were Adventureland, Frontierland, Tomorrowland and my personal favorite, Fantasyland. The cosmetics area is my Fantasyland. My pupils are fully dilated as I search the Max Factor display for the Solar Coral of my dreams.

Solar Coral is sort of an orangey-pink. If Max Factor was targeting the male purchaser they would call them as we see them. Names like mauve, ambrosia, fizz, wisteria and fuchsia would become pink #1, pink #2, pink #3, pink # 4 and pink #5. They would be aligned in gradation from shade to shade in numerical order.

I usually stick with soft reds. Acting on advice from a Vogue article I’m going to try Solar Coral over a soft red for a blend.

I find all the cosmetics on my list. That’s unusual. Cosmetics are usual very poorly stocked. Women must have no sense of urgency. They don’t seem to force merchants to keep everything on the shelves… ready each time they’re in the store.

I also buy a Revlon four-color eye shadow that isn’t on my list. Moody Blues. It contains three comely blues and a sparkling ivory. Okay! Pin me down and call me slut. I love passé / clichéd blue eye shadow even if it does age my eyes. It’s not like I’m going to wear it on a job interview. (If you have a mental picture of Mimi Bobeck… forget that. I want to look like a woman, not a caricature of a woman!)

My time in the cosmetic area has extended past five minutes. I relax. I’m a guy buying woman’s things. It’s not like I’m stealing or breaking any laws. If someone sees me and develops an opinion, it’s just that, an opinion. I have a complete personality that does many good things. I am what I am. I’m satisfied with what I am... Opinions don’t matter. They’re like love letters in the sand.

Sigmund Freud even had a complex. He was afraid of scientific terms – Hellenologophobia. He said we should learn to live with our complexes, as they are our basic selves. Everyone has an absolute right to their own course of action, as long as they aren’t hurting someone else.

(I get very philosophical in the cosmetics’ section.)

I’m now so at ease I actually start shopping! I select a nail color to match the blend I hope to soon have on my lips. I pick up and put down several tubes of lip-gloss. Lately I’ve started to use less luster.

Approaching the counter with everything on my list (plus a few added items) my steps falter. Being very observant, I know women don’t buy a dozen items at a time in a drugstore (men guzzle – women sip).

No matter now clever I’ve been with my purchasing I’m still a Mr. buying things meant for a Ms., Mrs. or Miss. What’s in my little red basket paints a big red target on my now red face.

I’ve never had a real bad experience with a clerk buying things for Pamela. No worse than when I’m purchasing male items. In my embarrassed state, when they’re being their normally rude selves and I’m buying something for Pamela, I take everything so personal. While waiting in line for the cashier, I think of a silly poem by Dorothy Parker.

Travel, trouble, music, art,

A kiss, a frock, a rhyme,

I never said they fed my heart,

But still, they pass the time.

The total is under $75. I pay cash, avoiding disclosing my name through use of a credit card. I place what is now legally ‘my cosmetics’ in the car’s trunk and focus my thinking on my next destination… Ridgedale Mall.

The first stop in the mall will be Marshall Field’s. I don’t like to go into Victoria’s Secret without a package. The impression I want to make is that I’m in the mall buying something else and decide to pop into Victoria’s Secret on a whim. Further, I need something to do with my hands so I don’t finger the bras like some sexual deviant. I am by definition a sexual deviant, so any amount of touching would be ‘fingering’.

A deviant is someone whose behavior is outside the accepted norms. Crossdressing is still a social taboo. The worthy keepers of the standards have some bizarre reason to stick to the theory of two distinct genders.... despite the preponderance of evidence to the contrary.

Estimates are that between 1% and 10% of all males have gender dysphoria, which would include some crossdressing. As crossdressers are notoriously paranoid, it would be useless to ask for a show of well-manicured hands. The immense popularity of Lane Bryant’s mail order and online shopping would suggest there are many, many of us. Especially when you consider the reluctance of woman to buy anything they haven’t tried on at least three times. One could conclude a significant number of males own something ‘tres chic’.

While I’ll accept that I’m a deviant (from a horribly stupid norm), I draw the line at pervert. A pervert is someone who habitually prefers some aberrant sexual practice to coitus. While I’ll dilly-dally with the occasional dildo, I’ve always preferred coitus.

Being a transvestite is an innate, profound part of my personality. Transvestites are a small portion of the population. So are left-handers. Left-handed people were once thought of as inherently evil. The Latin word for left-handed is sinister. Perverts? That’s just ignorance talking.

A woman is enjoying a very public makeover just inside the front door of Marshall Field’s. There’s no masculine equivalent. If a man is ever in that chair, I’m next in line. How totally feminine!

The only time I buy cosmetics in a department store is when they’re having a special. You know the come-on. Buy a lifetime supply of Estee Lauder perfume and receive a grab bag of cosmetics absolutely free. I’ve fallen for this gambit three times and have been thrice stupid. Any amount of Estee Lauder perfume would be a ‘lifetime supply’ for me. It makes you smell like an old lady. My mother-in-law is an old lady. She smells great in it. Not to be too judgmental... Estee Lauder cosmetics are junk. The foundation cakes, the eye shadow is so subtle as to be useless for someone with my ‘flair’ and it’s mostly embalmers who use their lipstick shades. What can you expect from a peddler who was raised over a hardware store in Queens? I use the trash her merchandising tricked me into buying for practicing my face painting.

You might ask, why don’t I shop for both the perfume and the nightie at Victoria’s Secret? After all, isn’t Victoria’s Secret’s Heavenly about as sexy a scent as has ever conceived? Yes it is! And I already have it stockpiled in my boudoir. (Not a lifetime supply, as that would require a small warehouse.)

Shopping for perfume at Marshall Field’s is a no-brainer. Which is perfect. My most satisfying feminine experiences are when I place my brain on automatic pilot and take it all in. The colors, the bouquet, the textures… the stores make every effort to create sensual carnivals. Hop on the ‘Mary’-go-round and let it happen.

"I’d like to buy something for my wife." Sort of true, as she eventually will get a whiff of it!

"What scent does she use?"

In pure David mode I might answer, "Anything but Estee Lauder!" This morning, Pamela is more in control than David. Pamela communicates. David entertains and competes. "She likes romantic scents like Chanel #5, Heavenly, White Shoulders..."

"We have a gift set of Curve for $57.50." She floats scented cardboard under my nose. Curve seems floral and not at all obnoxious. "The set contains cologne spray mist, body lotion, hair gel and body powder. Isn’t it just perfect? If you’d like, we also have the perfume in a two ounce bottle for $50.00."

Even though I make a good living and don’t pay much attention to price tags, $107.50 seems too much to try a new scent. I do the economical ‘thingy’.

"I’ll take the gift set. We’ll see about the perfume another time." Marketing has struck again. If I were a K-Mart shopper, my heels would be worn to a nubbin chasing down blue-light specials.

"Would you like it gift-wrapped?’ I’m faced with an ethical conundrum. Should I, a.) continue with the ruse and waste her materials, time and effort? Or, b.) refuse the offer and place my ‘secret’ in jeopardy? I go with a modified option ‘b’.

"That’s okay. I prefer to wrap it myself." I do like wrapping presents, but not for myself.

With my (deviant) hands filled, I move on to Victoria’s Secret. I could smell the Curve on my hands. There must have been some residue on the glass top of the counter. It’s a great day to be alive!

"Can I help you?" The sales clerk is wearing Heavenly. She is heavenly! Victoria’s Secret is… they hire eye-candy. ‘Victoria’ should teach her eye-candy to keep their mouths closed. The moment they talk their attractiveness drops precipitously.

"I’m looking for a gift." How’s that for skating the line? I don’t say whom the gift is for... (I’ll avoid lying if I can.)

"Is this for your wife?"

"Yes." (If I can.)

"What do you have in mind?"

The ‘boy’ word for nightie completely eludes me. What the heck is it?? Pajamas??? No that’s not it.... That’s way too flannelly... I’ve got to say something. It’s my turn to speak and this Heavenly scented babe will think I’m rude if….

"Pajamas." I said.

"You mean like a nightie?"

"Yes." I try my best not to blush. Is that good or bad? Does a husband blush in Victoria’s Secret? Is a blush a dead giveaway that I’m leaning toward uber-femme?

"We have some nice things on sale. What size is she?"

In my ‘trial and air-head’ days, I’d point to the largest woman in the store and say, "About her size." This is dicey strategy in Victoria’s Secret as their stock tops out at XL. Plus-sized ladies don’t shop there. Truth in advertising would suggest they should call it Little Victoria’s Secret. They’d risk an army of pedophiles over running their store.

My ‘state of the art’ technique is a thoughtful husband-like card I carry in my wallet marked "Lisa’s Sizes". Of course, the sizes are all Pamela’s.

"She wears an XL."

"We have these at 35% off."

And, for good reason. I can’t imagine what woman would buy the things she’s showing me. Or, what man would buy them for his wife? And, they have the nerve to call me a fetisher.

"Do you have anything a bit more traditional?" Something I haven’t seen worn by the Bada Bing dancers on The Sopranos?

"We do have these poet sleepshirts. They’re cute."

They ARE cute. Perhaps I should’ve worn that panty girdle. Do husbands shopping for their wives, confronted by a bimbo wearing Heavenly holding nighties up to their wondrous curves… get woodies? Sure they do... that’s Victoria’s real Secret.

The nightie is soft-blue, lightweight cotton with a sexy off-the-shoulder neckline. It has flounced edging and long, bell sleeves. It sings its siren song to me as it embraces ‘Heavenly’s’ chest. I want to touch it, but don’t want to risk being chastised for ‘fingering’.

"Yes. She’d like that." Like it? She loves it. In fact, she’s percolating right here in the store. "Does it come in any other color? Blue isn’t her favorite."

"We have it in a floral print." Obviously the Estee Lauder designer edition.

"It also comes in whisper pink." She opens a drawer and finds the comfy looking nightie in pink #6.

"I’ll take it! Do you have a gift box? I like to wrap my own presents." I said ‘my own’! Does that work? Or, did I just give myself away? Luckily she pretty much quit listening to me as soon as the sale was made.

Speaking of dithering idiots... I forgot to check the price. I’ve had awful shocks buying lingerie in the past. I almost bought a $250 sleep set. I had the good sense to back out of that at the counter.

"It will be a total of $36.04."

"Okey-dokey." There’s that David charm. Again, I pay with cash.

How lucky woman shoppers are to have such light packages. How many poet sleepshirts would it take to equal the weight of one gallon of paint? Even an entire gift set of Curve is only half the weight of a small box of washers.

We’re all hunter-gatherers. When men go after Bambi and come home without a carcass, they’re inconsolable. Woman can hunt alone or in packs for hours. If they leave the stores empty-handed, they’re proud of themselves for showing restraint. The past few years, I’ve gone on ‘Pamela’ shopping trips without actually buying anything. If the salespeople aren’t too intrusive, it’s very relaxing.

The elation from my morning’s adventure is muted by feelings I can’t identify. I keep checking my rearview mirror for lurking danger. I’m anxious to get home... to the safety and security Lisa and I have built.

Why does my right ear have such a compelling itch?

Sometimes I wish my life would be different. I know we have to play the cards that we’re dealt. Why these cards? I have no idea and I’m too old to care.

 

Chapter Three – Psychiatrist

Tuesday, July 20, 2000

Michael K. Brousseau, MD

Patient #1280

Session One Recap

THE SUBJECT IS A MALE CAUCASIAN, 54 YEARS OLD, AVERAGE HEIGHT AND BUILD. HE’S COMPLAINED OF LACK OF SLEEP, INABILITY TO CONCENTRATE AND FITS OF ANGER.

AS MANY OTHER FIRST-SESSION MALE PATIENTS, HE HAS FAILED TO MAKE EYE CONTACT FOR ANY SUSTAINED PERIOD OF TIME.

He seems more interested in the diplomas on my wall than in discussing his issues. Hopefully, my MD designation will allow him to open up.

Look at that old fart eyeing my diploma. You can almost hear him calculating my age. I’m 33 for God’s sake! Why is it no one but the ancient fossils and those sent here by the courts for evaluation, can afford me.

THE SUBJECT HAS IDENTIFIED HIS DISORDER AS CROSSDRESSING.

Oh great! Another red-letter day in the life of Michael Brousseau. When I attended college I dreamt of helping people through research. I never wanted to have a practice where I’d have to deal with this crap. My plan was to help those with deep-seated neuroses, those that had been traumatized, not these people.

I graduated toward the top of my class and would’ve qualified for research grants had the economy not suffered a downturn. Oh sure, some of the ‘connected’ people still got grants. Not Michael Brousseau. I’m stuck with the overripe fruits.

After failing to land a spot in a research clinic, I fell into counseling. Shortly after I opened my door, my empty appointment book prompted me to sign a long-term contract with a website called "Locate A MD". Had I known then how easy it was to take on court ordered evaluation work at $150 an hour, I wouldn’t have been so impetuous.

I’m the only psychiatrist in the state that comes up when you do a search on ‘sexual problems’. I can’t believe the losers I attract through that website. Every damned one of them has some petty problem they could easily handle on their own, if they had a shred of self-control.

This one thinks he has a problem with clothing, when his real problem is his fixation on his penis.

Too bad he isn’t suffering from narcissistic personality disorder, as I suspected when he called on the phone. I need to publish to move out of the rut I’m in. Nobody cares about papers about transvestites. There’s grant money available for work on ‘sissy-boys’; this guy doesn’t fit with that crowd. Too bad!

My skin crawls every time paraphiles crawl out from under their rocks. Why can’t they stay in their freaking closets?

At least he has money. My fee for an off the street case is $200 an hour. He didn’t blink at the $1,500 retainer. I’ll schedule him for six – ninety minute sessions. I can stand listening to him every other week.

That will pay for the new fur coat Alyssa wants. She’s high maintenance and well worth it. The best wife money can buy. She looks damned good on my arm at the club. Those other bastards would love to get into her panties. She’s mine. Come to think of it, I’ll bet little Miss High Heels here would probably like to get into her panties.

SUBJECT BEGAN CROSSDRESSING AT AGE OF FOUR IN PLAY WITH OLDER SISTER. ‘HE SAYS’ HE WAS NEVER FORCED TO CROSSDRESS! ‘HE SAYS’ HIS MOTHER WAS NOT THE AUTHORITY FIGURE IN HIS HOME. ‘HE SAYS’ HIS FATHER WAS NOT ABSENT. ‘HE SAYS’ HE ENGAGED IN NORMAL MALE CHILD ACTIVITIES. ‘HE SAYS’ HIS FAVORITE SPORT WAS FOOTBALL.

 

‘HE SAYS’ HE ISN’T A HOMOSEXUAL. BUT HE DOES ADMIT TO PERIODIC HOMOSEXUAL FANTASIES WHILE ‘DRESSED’ AND MASTURBATING.

Yeah! Like he’s not a fairy? He’s either lying or ‘blocking’… which is sub-conscious lying. He probably can’t wait to get somewhere in some frilly little number so he can whack his willy... thinking of me. Alyssa says I look like David Schwimmer… only smarter. I suppose I do. But, Schwimmer’s sort of a wimp. I’ve got a much better physique. I wouldn’t blame this sissy if he fell for his doctor. Not much danger of me violating my Hippocratic oath with this one.

SUBJECT DOESN’T USE CAFFEINE, DOESN'T SMOKE, IS ON NO MEDICATION, NO RECREATIONAL DRUGS AND DRINKS ALCOHOL ONLY MODERATELY. I’VE RECOMMENDED A CUP OF CHAMOMILE TEA BEFORE BED.

I can just imagine the little sweetie, all bundled up in his nightgown and slippers having a nice ‘cuppa’ tea. If he’d loosen up and do a line every now and again, he wouldn’t have to wank in his panties.

 

Chapter Four – Lisa Gibson – David’s Wife

Saturday, October 21, 2000

My father is a bastard

My ma’s an S.O.B.

My grandpa’s always plastered

My grandma pushes tea

My sister wears a mustache

My brother wears a dress

Goodness Gracious, That’s why I’m a mess

Yes!

Officer Krupke. You’re really a slob

This boy don’t need a doctor, just a good honest job

Society’s played him a terrible trick

And sociologic’ly he’s sick

- West Side Story

***

Lisa is sitting on their deck overlooking forty-acres of wetlands. The mint she’d planted below the deck as ground cover is in full aroma.

She’s having a conversation with the only person in the world she trusts… herself.

***

We bought our current home when Jess was a baby. Five people in a five-bedroom house are a nice fit. Now there are only two of us living here. We seem to fill our empty nest with resentment and anger. It was nice with all those kids… but so costly.

For the first thirty years of marriage, David and I were busy. Three children, their births spread over 14 years, can find ways to keep you jumping. We both are deeply involved in their lives.

We have a high rate of fertility. ‘Unprotected’ we made a baby almost every time! My diaphragm worked great.

We’ve built a very good restaurant business. Money has always been tight, but adequate. I’ve enjoyed working with him. He’s at his best with new promotional ideas.

People see us as an ideal couple. A happy couple. Our kids have brought us a great deal of joy. So many of our friends’ kids are such disappointments. If your kids are a problem, where’s the hope for the future? It’s just… people don’t know that David and I are a trio. Shit. Shit. Shit. Sometimes I just don’t know!

I hate it when he gets like he is this morning. Something bothers him and he becomes so morose. He won’t tell me what’s wrong. I don’t even bother asking him anymore. Sometimes he makes it seem like it’s my problem. Then he goes off and spends money on ‘things’.

He’s so stuck on himself when he’s Pammy… More cosmetics. He has so much already. And clothes! He has… she has clothes coming out of her ears. I can’t get David to buy himself any decent clothes to wear to work, yet he can’t wait to go shopping for female clothes for himself. It’s like he’s two different people. Schizo!

He and Jess get along so well. They should. He’s emotionally about her age when he’s all dressed up. He just doesn’t use good sense.

We dated for years and he never mentioned his ‘hobby’. He says it was no big thing back then. He says he never did anything about his urges for years. It was a year into our marriage when she came out of the closet (or went into my closet). That didn’t work. He’s too big to wear my things, thank goodness.

He knows it’s not right. He says he’s tried to quit. Now he says quitting is impossible. He won’t try. We can’t even discuss it. He just gets mad at me when I bring it up.

When he did make feeble efforts at quitting, it just cost us more money. He would throw away his very expensive things and a few months later have to buy all new. If he hadn’t wasted so much money, I wouldn’t be working.

I don’t get it! The man I married has tremendous will power. He’s overcome a great deal in his life by simply ignoring any potential for failure. Twenty-five years ago he had terrible anxiety attacks. He bought himself some self-help books and within a year was making public speeches again, promoting our business. A few months back our family doctor told him his cholesterol was out of line and suggested a strict no-fat diet. David went from being a man who loves his steak to a vegetarian overnight.

Yet, he says he can’t quit being Pamela. I think he just doesn’t want to quit.

So what if the urges are strong? A man’s supposed to bear hardship for the good of his family. How much am I supposed to take? I’ve lost sleep many night’s sleep and have a nervous stomach from worry. John never seems to show much anxiety… lucky Swede.

Truthfully… I lost respect for him years ago. How can you respect a man whose life is filled with deceit? A man who constantly is sneaking about, doing strange things, trying to be something he isn’t! He’s got his head in the clouds… probably from reading all that Kurt Vonnegut nonsense. John doesn’t read that stuff. I can always talk to John about the latest Crichton novel…

When he first told me about his dresses, I thought he was kidding. Who would have thought someone as virile as him would be involved in something like that? He was virile at one time. Now he’s so different.

I could use his ‘hobby’ to control him. It’s given me a degree of power I didn’t have before I knew his secret. Not that I’d ever take advantage of him.

Sometimes he does wear a nice scent and it isn’t too bad sleeping next to him. Other times, his perfume aggravates me no end. Same thing with his skin. It’s so soft and smooth. At times it’s a real turn on to run my hands over his body. But for gosh sakes! I work in the flowers without gloves. This time of year, my hands are rough and calloused. I like to get calluses so my hands can take the hard work. He’s careful to wear gloves to keep his hands soft. I’m afraid someday he’ll do such a good job fooling himself he’ll forget who he is.

I know ‘she’ wants me to tell ‘her’ how good ‘she’ looks… and sometimes ‘she’ actually does look pretty. But, put a sock in it…

People can be so foolish when they try to be what they’re not.

I actually can’t stand kissing him when he’s wearing lipstick!

I constantly have to remind myself of all his good points in order for it to be bearable. I have a right to the man I married. He says I married all of him. By that, he includes Pamela. I don’t remember her at our wedding. Not even as one of my attendants!

What’s so attractive about being a woman? Let David have his first period, he’d think twice about what he’s doing!

I was so eager to get married. There were plenty who told me to stay away from him. Back then he was quite a drinker. He doesn’t do that anymore. Most of my friends didn’t think he’d amount to much. Most of my friends married men who had all their success before they got married. Life hasn’t been so good for them. I know they’re envious of me. Our big, beautiful house tells them we’ve done well. Imagine that… envious of my life.

We’ve stayed married. Sometimes I wonder if it’s been a good idea. With the kids… I couldn’t even consider leaving him. What would I tell people? It would be too embarrassing to tell them the truth. I’m caught in my own personal monkey trap.

I was scared of the prospect of growing old without a husband. My fear of loneliness was much stronger than my fear of marrying the wrong person. I should’ve had my eyes open wider. Now I’m so lonely I actually enjoy talking with telemarketers.

He’s been a good provider. I’ve managed to save money despite all he’s spent on dresses and makeup.

What really makes me furious is thinking about what might have been. He’s so creative. If he hadn’t wasted all that talent, money and time over the years on foolishness, just think where we’d be.

I don’t understand why he abandons me like this. I feel so rejected. A woman can understand losing out to some young, trophy wife… but this?

The kids are all fooled. Except Jess. Jess figured him out. Something’s going on there. Jess is too positive about this mess. She’s playing him like a fiddle. I’m just waiting to see what she wants. I wonder what the boys would say if they knew their hard-driving dad wears panties?

But I do love him. He’s kind and can be so sensitive.

Damn it! Think of the pressure he’s placed on me over the years. I’m clinging to reality for the two of us. I’m sure one of our neighbors knows. If one knows… they all know. Secrets like that are like money… meant for circulation.

He does stick to his word when he gives it. Even when it comes to Pammy. He does what we agree upon. Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I should have set down more rules? He trusts me. I’ve kept his secret all these years.

I’m so jealous of Pammy at times. There was a time in our marriage that David would come to me in times of stress. Now he looks to escape from pressure by becoming Pammy for a few hours.

Once, my biggest fear was that he would want to become a woman. Now, I almost wish he did want to become a woman. At least men who want to become women realize there are two sexes. He doesn’t get it. You’re either fish or fowl. He wants to be something in between.

It’s just so hard to figure out where I fit in. I’m not a lesbian, yet I find myself making love to a woman. I’m not a man. I suppose he wants me to be something in between as well.

He won’t listen to me. I’ve tried to reason with him, help him keep himself under control. He just gets angry when I try to talk sense to him.

He keeps trying to get me to read pornographic material from the internet, as if that’s going to make me feel any better. He says it’s educational. How educational can anything be you get off the internet?

Underneath it all, he’s probably a homo. I’ve suspected that for years. He’s probably practicing being a female so when he finally finds a man he’ll know what to do. He probably wants to go to those ‘support’ meetings so he can meet a man. I’ve absolutely forbidden it.

We have to stay together through Jess’ wedding. I’ve put up with it this far; I can put up with it some more. After the wedding, we’ll take it a day at a time. Lately, for some reason, planning for the future is very hard.

To think, I could have married John. Carol is so lucky having someone so normal. John, David and I were so close on high school. We could have paired off the other way. He’s so handsome. So self-assured. The way he handles himself is… oh my… admirable. Had I known then…

Everyone finds a way to like John… sooner or later… while David just seems to get people all riled up…

Oh, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I’ve got things to do… We’re going to Northfield this afternoon. I’ve got to get my groceries done.

 

Chapter Five – Psychiatrist

Tuesday, August 1, 2000

Michael K. Brousseau, MD

Patient #1280

Session Two Recap

SPENT ENTIRE SESSION OUTLINING TREATMENT OPTIONS. AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SESSION THE SUBJECT WAS ARGUMENTATIVE. HE CLAIMED HE WASN’T SUFFERING FROM ANY SORT OF ‘DISORDER’. I ASSURED HIM THAT HIS PROBLEM IS CLASSIFIED AS A DISORDER. I TOLD HIM HIS DISORDER COULD BE VERY DISRUPTIVE BECAUSE OF THE IMPACT IT HAS ON OTHER PEOPLE. I TOLD HIM THIS WAS PARTICULARLY TRUE WHEN THE DISORDER INVOLVED ACTS LIKE RAPE, SADISM OR SEXUAL ABUSE OF CHILDREN. ‘SUBJECT SAYS’ HE WOULD NEVER TAKE PART IN, OR CONDONE, SUCH ACTIVITIES. I CAUTIONED SUBJECT THAT SEXUAL DISORDERS ARE QUITE PREVALENT IN OUR SOCIETY; AND BECAUSE SOME OF THEM CAN POSE A DANGER, IT’S IMPORTANT WE GIVE ALL OF THEM CAREFUL CONSIDERATION.

That put the little pantywaist in his place. I have to assert the rightful place of the physician in this relationship.

THE ‘SUBJECT SAYS’ HE DRESSES MOST OFTEN IN TIMES OF STRESS. HE CLAIMS IT SOOTHES HIM. IT’S OBVIOUS HE HAS A SEVERE PERSONALITY DISORDER AS HE HAS REPEATEDLY ACTED UPON PARAPHILIC URGE. ‘SUBJECT SAYS’ HE HAS NORMAL COITUS WITH HIS WIFE. ‘HE SAYS’ HE DOESN’T FANTASIZE ABOUT HARMING HER. SUBJECT DOES NOT TRY TO PASS IN PUBLIC AS A WOMAN.

At least he’s not quite that ‘fucked-up’. I’m so glad I don’t practice in England. The other day I was reading an English magazine at the club… they’ve got all that trendy shit lying around… According to an article in the magazine, 5,000 Englishmen were surveyed. A full 25% of them said they would crossdress at least once in their life. More incredible was the 8% that said they did it with regularity. One of the eleven on every soccer side is wearing a pink, lace nut-cup when they’re on the pitch.

SUBJECT SAYS HE SOMETIMES FANTASIZES OTHER MEN ARE ATTRACTED TO HIM WHEN HE’S CROSSDRESSED. HE SAYS HE DOESN’T THINK THIS MEANS HE’S HOMOSEXUAL. HE SAYS HE THINKS IT JUST IS HIS DESIRE TO FEEL TOTALLY FEMININE WHEN DRESSED AS SUCH.

And I fantasized about my wife this afternoon… it’s just my desire to be totally fucked. I wonder just how long I can hold a professional/concerned look on my face around this ‘Nancy’?

This is just great… I’m being dragged through the sewers of his bisexual identity, Oedipal situations, mother’s feminized phallus, etc. Next this jackass is going to try to convince me crossdressing is an extension of the range of male sexuality.

HE SAYS HE WEARS FEMALE CLOTHING BECAUSE IT FEELS RIGHT OR BECAUSE IT SEEMS APPROPRIATE. ‘HE SAYS’ HE DOESN’T HATE HIMSELF. ‘HE SAYS’ HIS DEPRESSION IS SOMETHING NEW.

I wonder how many times I can say ‘uh huh’ to this lying sack of shit, when all I want to do is scream. "Bullshit!"

‘HE SAYS’ HE’S BEEN MARRIED FOR OVER 30 YEARS TO THE SAME WOMAN AND HAS A SATISFACTORY MARRIAGE.

She must look like Hitler… mustache and all. This ‘Shirley Temple’ is the Prince of Duality.

I EXPLAINED TO THE SUBJECT THE LACK OF A CLEAR PHYSIOLOGICAL EXPLANATION FOR PARAPHILES. I EXPLAINED THAT SOME DOCTORS LINK IT TO A HIGH SEX DRIVE.

Yeah, they can’t keep their little peckers in their panties.

SUBJECT DID NOT OBJECT TO BEING ‘CURED’, BUT GAVE NO IMMEDIATE AFFIRMATION. SUBJECT STATED HE WOULD HAVE TO WEIGH THE TREATMENT OPTIONS AGAINST EXPECTED OUTCOMES. I TOLD HIM CASTRATION SEEMED TO RESULT IN THE MOST PREDICTABLE OUTCOME.

Smartass, cocksucker heard that! All these crossdressers have castration anxiety. That’s what stirs their sick little pots.

AS AN ALTERNATIVE I SUGGESTED PSYCHOTHERAPY. THIS WOULD INVOLVE AT LEAST 15… MORE THAN LIKELY AS MANY AS 25… SESSIONS… TO ACHIEVE A FAVORABLE OUTCOME.

Salesmanship! Either get out your wallet or I deactivate your love knob. $7,500 big ones would certainly start the New Year right.

I hope he doesn’t know most psychiatrists consider psychotherapy outdated and useless for treating transvestites. Hell, I’m even on fairly decent ethical ground here as nothing will work if he isn’t a willing participant. Transvestites are never willing participants.

THE POSSIBILITY OF GROUP THERAPY WAS DISCUSSED AND REJECTED OUT OF HAND BY THE CLIENT.

I SPOKE AT LENGTH TO BEHAVIORAL THERAPY. WE WOULD CONDITION HIS RESPONSES TO SEXUAL STIMULI, EXTINGUISHING HIS PERVERSION AND REWARDING NORMAL SEXUAL URGES. I SPOKE OF BOTH AVERSION THERAPY AND SHAME AVERSION THERAPY. IN CONJUNCTION WE COULD USE A COGNITIVE APPROACH ALLOWING THE SUBJECT TO IDENTIFY DEVIATION SUPPORTING BELIEFS, CHALLENGE THEM AND REPLACE THEM WITH MORE ADAPTIVE BELIEFS.

A lot of wusses, like this one, have thoughts revolving around gaining approval. They think the world should be fair and un-frustrating. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I can only do so much to help them change that loony attitude. That attitude’s what sent Jimmy Carter back to Peanutsville.

I SPOKE TO THE SUBJECT ABOUT ONE LAST ALTERNATIVE… HORMONE REPLACEMENT THERAPY. SUBJECT WOULD TAKE PROVERA IN A DOSAGE ABOUT EQUAL TO WHAT A WOMAN WOULD TAKE DURING HORMONE REPLACEMENT THERAPY, ABOUT 10 MG PER DAY. I CAUTIONED THE SUBJECT THAT THE PROVARA COULD HAVE A SIDE EFFECT OF ENLARGING HIS BREASTS OR MIGHT ADD WEIGHT TO HIS HIPS.

I’m surprised he’s not interested. I thought he’d jump at having big breasts. Looks like ‘Mary’ wants to stay in the closet.

THE SUBJECT AGREED TO A BEHAVIORAL APPROACH. OUR NEXT SESSION WILL BE DEVOTED TO A DISCUSSION OF BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION AND ROLE PLAYING.

THE SUBJECT STATED THE CHAMOMILE WAS NOT HAVING A POSITIVE EFFECT. I PRESCRIBED 25 MG OF CLONAZEPAN BY MOUTH 1 – 2 HOURS BEFORE BED. THIS WILL COUNTER ANXIETY AND SOCIAL PHOBIA.

And, should make him more compliant next time we meet.

 

Chapter Six – Jessica Gibson – David’s Daughter

Saturday, October 21, 2000

It is almost noon when I finally end my sleep binge, lying in bed lazily watching a sparrow sitting on my window. The roar of my mother’s bright red ’95 Jetta signals it’s time to join the world. It was my brother’s car before my mother made it her own. He had installed a performance muffler. Mom says driving that car gives her an emotional boost. Imagine… an inanimate object giving someone a thrill!

I threw on a robe and surveyed the front yard. Mom and dad really break their backs on the lawn and flowers.

Mom is just leaving. Probably going to Byerly’s for the week’s groceries. No matter how many times I suggest it she won’t take advantage of simondelivers.com.

Coming down the stairs, I see a refection of my dad in the hall mirror. He is sitting on the floral covered couch in the living room paging through a photo album.

His feet are tucked under him. I air-kiss his cheek so as not to muss his makeup. "Is that Curve?"

"Yes… do you like it?"

"I do… one of my pod-mates in the dorm wears it all the time. Callie is major kewl."

"Is it too young for me?"

He’s so self-involved! Pamela looks about 15 years younger than David. It’s not only the wig covering the gray in his hair… she’s much more relaxed. The makeup she wears adds to her youthful appearance.

"You’re only as old as you think you are. You look nice this morning." He’s wearing a tucked bodice dress. Its full skirt and the dress liner slip under it are arranged around his legs. He plucks at the hem of his skirt to cover his slip.

He does look nice. He’s wearing a new lip color. Something festive and bright that looks very sweet. The first time I saw him as Pamela I had to rush him through an emergency makeover. His make-up skills are improving. They’re almost better than mine. I wish I had his acute dress sense. "I was just thinking how neat it is we both have sexy, television babe names."

"You were named after your aunt, not Jessica Alba. And, I’ve was Pamela long before Baywatch started on TV."

There are several albums on the couch. He likes photographs. The one in his lap is filled with pictures of the family from the years before I was born. One of the albums on the coffee table he uses for his ‘special’ pictures. He must have just added some new pictures to it. For some reason he’s holding the cats in most of those. The others are either mom or me in natural poses around our house with Pamela.

"Your mother made breakfast for you… about four hours ago…. pancakes and bacon. She must have saved the batter in the fridge. I was just about to make some herbal tea. Care to join me?" He slides his legs out from under him and deftly places his sheer nylon clad feet into leather pumps dyed grape to match his dress.

As he puts down the album, it catches on the necklace he’s wearing. It has a small cross on a delicate gold chain. It snaps before he realizes what was happening.

"Oh darn. I guess it was its time," he said, as he picks up the pieces and tucks them in his dress pocket. "I only mind as it’s so hard to find nice gold chains in 20 inch lengths."

Arm and arm we walk the several steps into the kitchen. I press close to feel his strength and warmth.

I search the pantry as he puts on the teakettle. There are about a dozen boxes of Celestial Seasonings herb tea. "How does wild cherry blackberry sound?"

"Delicious! That should hit the ‘pot’."

It’s one of dad’s ‘things’ to remind us of our childhood malapropisms. He has several for each of the three of us. According to him, I would rub my ‘little tummy’ after eating and proclaim, "That hit the ‘pot’."

"Daddy, you’re such a retard."

As I walk out on the deck off the kitchen to enjoy the warmth of the sun, it occurs to me… the deck will soon be covered with snow and much less inviting.

I’m still a little put off by Pamela. She’s definitely one of my best friends, but I think of her as that aunt that sometimes overstays her welcome. This morning is fine, as I haven’t seen her for about a month. I sometimes forget Pamela and dad are the same person.

My dad has always been there for me. He’s very alert to what is happening in my life. Sometimes he notices things even mom misses. I suppose I’m lucky in some ways to have a dad who’s so fashion conscious. He reads most of the same magazines I do.

He’s always been very protective of his baby and only daughter. His rules have been very strict. He’s also been playful... fun to be around… for the most part. He has a sign in his home office that says, "Be nice to your kids… they’ll pick your nursing home."

I know my self-esteem is due to dad and mom being so quick to praise me for whatever I do. Their love and respect for each other has helped me establish a set of values that will guide me in life.

I first became aware of Pamela about a year ago. I was taking a psychology course that discussed abnormal behavior. All of us saw ourselves as having one disorder or another. It was a real laugh. When we went over the section on gender disorders (transvestites and transsexuals) I immediately recognized dad.

I was studying alone in my dorm room at about 10:00 PM. I looked up from my book at the stuffed rabbit my daddy gave me for Easter when I was six and said, "Oh my God! Daddy wants to be a woman."

I’d put together a number of fragmented clues. The oversized clothes in mom’s closet I thought were Grandma’s. The cosmetics I knew Mom couldn’t possibly use (she’s very light and daddy’s dark). Dad’s floral cologne.

I’d always felt something wasn’t right.

That night, I was pretty mad at dad. To me, he’d been living a lie. It was obvious he was responsible for every emotional problem I had, or ever would have.

I worried what my friends would think if word ever got out.

What if whatever causes him to do this is in my genes? Would I become a lesbian or want to have a penis?

Is he going crazy?

How will he support us if he gets worse?

We had to write a term paper for my psych class. Due to my discovery, I chose to write about transgendered males. My intent was to get an ‘A’. More importantly, I wanted to know as much as I could when I confronted him. He’d been lying to me and I didn’t want to hear any more bull. There was also a very slight chance I was wrong!

Motivated by fear of the unknown and seething with anger fired by betrayal, I started with a basic Google search. Searching on the word ‘transvestite" I was amazed to find 358,000 sites. Using a term I had learned in psychology I searched on ‘transgendered’ …350,000 sites. It appeared I’d have enough information for a dozen term papers. I wondered if dad had read much of this?

There was a myriad of information and disinformation. I reviewed dozens of individual’s websites; some soothingly sweet, others disturbingly gross.

I soon realized the meager information in our college psych book didn’t do anything close to justice to the topic. I began to appreciate my awesome ignorance.

Dad has stressed the importance of time management to me. I’d originally blocked out 50 hours to write the term paper. It would count as half the final grade for the course. I could easily afford the time. After two hours on-line I increased my time allotment an additional 75 hours. There would be no social life for me for the next three weeks as I poured through the material and arranged my thoughts. I spent four to five hours at a time on-line.

Site after site referred to ‘Tri-Ess’, so I reviewed their entire website. From what I could tell, the information they posted was valid. I tried to form my own opinions by reviewing psychological reports. I became fluent in the Harry Benjamin Scale and the Standards of Care for Gender Dysphoria.

I was relieved to see that many psychologists and psychiatrists no longer considered crossdressing to be an illness. It was shocking to read the recent history of the psychiatric community’s attitudes. I was proud to note the leadership role of the State of Minnesota in legal tolerance and support for the transgendered community.

Various studies indicated somewhere between 1% and 12% of the population is transgendered. The Tri-Ess website said that 5% of the adult males in the United States are crossdressers. My dad doesn’t seem so odd given those numbers. It seems logical that if 5% of the adult males in the United States are crossdressing, they must be doing it in such a way as to be quite benign. Not the type of thing portrayed in Silence of the Lambs.

Dad’s suffering from out and out bigotry! Fear caused by ignorance. As a victim of discrimination, it’s no wonder he’s so isolated. My anger returned… at the psychiatric community for coming late to their conclusions and at the general population for being so hideous.

My mission became clear. I knew I had to know more about my dad’s psyche. I wanted to place him on the Harry Benjamin Scale, although I’d learned too much to rely solely on their criteria. Several sites suggested lack of support for the transvestite’s male side, could result in the female side assuming more and more control. If I didn’t help dad, things could spiral; possibly out of control.

I created my own test to answer four basic questions I felt I needed to know.

1. ) Is dad a TS, TV or CD?

2. ) If a TS, does he want to go through a SRS?

3.) If a CD, what amount of feminization does he want?

4.) Is dad hetero, homo or bi?

Dad agreed to come to St. Ben’s. I told him I had something very important to discuss. I told him it was between him and me. Do not tell mom.

This wasn’t a restaurant-type discussion. I asked a grad student for the use of his office. I hoped dad wouldn’t walk away when it got embarrassing.

We met at the front gate of the campus and walked to my friend’s office. We brought each other up to date on our lives for the past few weeks… since I’d last been home.

The door to the small office slams behind us like the bars to a cell. He doesn’t seem to notice. The stench from my friend’s cheap pipe tobacco permeates the room, even though smoking is prohibited in this building.

"What’s the big secret, Sweetie?"

"So… you’re probably thinking this is going to be something really, really bad. But, it’s not… really … so bad." I sit at the desk leaving him to sit in the side chair. "So, here goes. The big secret is I know your secret."

"What secret is that?"

I’m totally prepared for him to be evasive, knowing of his life of deception. I plunge right in. "Okay……. Okay…… I know about you and your female clothing. I know that you like to dress as a woman."

"Did your mother tell you?"

Mom does know! I’ll have to have a talk with her. I guess I could’ve figured it impossible for her not to know. "No. I’ve seen your things around the house and finally put two and two together."

His eyes are glistening. I brought a supply of Kleenex, but don’t have a clue what I’ll do if he breaks down. Dad is my rock. Our relationship might never be the same. I can only hope for the best.

"You… must think I’m… weird." He said.

"Helloooo! You’re my dad. You can’t be weird. You’re not from planet loser. I’m not sure exactly what to think, dad. I need to know more about your secret life. I need to know some intimate details that will be painful for both of us to discuss." My dad has always trusted me. He’s given me great latitude in my life and I suspect he will trust me today as well.

"I’ll try to be as honest as I can. I don’t know what to tell you… this isn’t something I’m accustomed to putting into words."

He isn’t whining or asking me to go easy. I can easily commiserate with his confusion having muddled through all the conflicting internet info. "I’ve done quite a bit of research and have prepared a list of questions. Does this make any sense to you? …. If you’re ready, we can start?"

He nods his head. I take out my list, place it on the desk and proceed to read. "Are you homosexual?"

"No." He doesn’t equivocate.

"Are you sexually attracted to females at all times? Even when you’re in a dress?" He looks like a dad being asked very hard questions by his daughter. I’ve seen that look many times over the years when I’ve asked him a thousand ‘important’ questions. His posture and voice speak of honesty and candor.

"Why… ah… why do you want to know?"

"I’m going to try to determine what sort of transgendered person you are. If you can tell me, I’d like to know."

"I still don’t know exactly what you’re after. But, I’ll answer your questions as fully as I can. I’m not homosexual or bi-sexual, no matter how I’m dressed. However, I will from time to time fantasize about homosexual sex when dressed as a woman. I’m sure it would never go beyond fantasy."

"How often do you wear women’s clothing?"

"As often as I can."

"How often is that?"

"Most every day."

That is a humongous surprise. I’d imagined a monthly or annual Halloween-type thing. Why didn’t I have more of an appreciation for his lifestyle when I researched the ‘strong compulsion’ and the ‘takeover of the female psyche’? "How often are you fully dressed as a woman?"

His answers are firm and non-evasive. However, his eyes are fixed on the bookcase in the corner. "Now that you’re at college… here… I suppose it’s about an average of two or three times a week."

"When you dream, do you dream of yourself as a woman? Or, as a man dressed as a woman?"

"I’m always a man dressed as a woman, if I dream of being dressed in female clothing."

"Sexual arousal is a big part of crossdressing. Is it for you?" Did I just ask my dad that question? I totally choked. My father is going to go ballistic on me. Could we really sit down at the same table for Thanksgiving dinner after today? I make a big deal out of staring at my list so he’ll know it’s a question from the paper.

"Yes… sexual arousal is part of it… more so years ago than it is now."

"Are you sexually aroused every time you wear women’s clothing?" We don’t make eye contact. The unspoken rules of engagement don’t allow it.

"No."

"About what percentage of the time when you're dressed in women’s clothing are you sexually aroused?" These questions had sounded a lot less personal when I ran across them on the internet in various surveys. I know they’re important to determine what place he takes on the Harry Benjamin scale, but they’ve nothing to do with his place in my heart.

"About the same percentage of time I’m aroused when dressed in male clothing. The feminine clothing enhances my…um… sex drive. It’s rarely a trigger for ‘arousal’…"

"Can you tell me under what circumstances you become aroused when dressed?"

"I could, but I won’t. I’ll be honest and open with you. I’m very proud of you for the way you’re tackling this head on. But… I will not discuss things with you that are too personal …that involve your mother."

"Oops! I totally paused… er… I wasn’t thinking. You’re right dad. I don’t want to know. And, I don’t need to know what goes on between you and mom." We make eye contact for the first time in several minutes! "Are you under psychiatric care?"

"No."

"Should you be?" He laughs and I giggle, maybe we will always be dad and daughter.

"Not for any reason I know of…"

"I’ve read quite a bit about the guilt involved in crossdressing and the damage it can do… Have you ever felt you needed help to handle the stress and possible damage to your ego?"

"Your mother has given me enough support to make it bearable. I haven’t thought of myself as a bad person in years. At least, not for my crossdressing. As far as I can tell, I’m mentally sound. You mom has been good about helping me."

Oh! Old people can be so sweet! "Are you involved in any other sexual habits that might be considered deviant?"

"No… crossdressing is my one and only big secret."

"Is it your goal to eventually become a woman?"

"When I was young, even as late as your age, I thought that might be something for me to do… But, no, I’m sure I never want to become a woman."

My questions went on and on for another hour. I asked probing questions about his current degree of feminization and how much further he wanted to go. There were questions about gender identity and degree of arousal… much of it was repetitive to affirm previous responses. It was mutually embarrassing, but we both approached it as clinically as possible.

In every instance, his answers indicated a heterosexual crossdresser with a moderate level of fetishism. His gender identity was extremely mixed. It appeared his psyche was androgynous, which accounted for his very strong female gender identity on some issues and his compulsion to act out a female role. It also explained his equally strong male identity in other matters and why his crossdressing was so easily hidden all these years.

"That’s all the questions I have." I said.

"What’s the verdict?" He asked.

"Verdict?"

"Am I still your dad?" This has been his fear all those years. It is his bottom line.

"Duh! Sure you are. There was never any doubt of that. My questions weren’t a matter of loving you as my dad or not… I just wanted to know what to expect in the future." I move around the desk and give him the best hug of his life. "I want you to have happiness. If you find true happiness crossdressing, I support it and accept it. And, you gave some really good answers!"

Over the next few months I got to know Pamela. She is my dad. In about an hour, when we go to Northfield to see grandma and grandpa, David will emerge. There will be traces of Pamela in David. There are always traces of David in Pamela.

I haven’t noticed a change in the relationship between Dad and me, other than a broadening. We have many, many similar interest.

Dad’s crossdressing is problematic. I respect his wishes to keep his activities personal. He doesn’t want my brothers to know, so I’m party to a cover-up. I also have to be careful with my friends so there isn’t a bunch of explaining to do. At times it’s awkward. Friends never come before family.

At some point I have to explain it to Mychal, my fiancé. There’s no time like the present. Mychal’s having brunch with me tomorrow. I’ll get it out of the way before the wedding. I’m sure he’ll be okay. I wouldn’t marry anyone who isn’t tolerant.

I will soon be out of my parent’s house full-time. My parents and I have been planning what dad calls my ‘white funeral of single life’. One of my major concerns when I found out about Pamela had been that I’d have no one to escort me down the aisle. Dad will be at my side in the tuxedo I’ve selected for him.

Mom and I don’t see eye to eye about Pamela. ‘Heinous bitch’ would pretty much describe how she’s acting. They say there’s no happiness more perfect in life than being a martyr. Now that I know about dad, mom thinks I should be her personal dumping ground. I have no time for it, as she refuses to learn about crossdressing. She talks of her unconditional love, but won’t even read my A+ term paper.

I shouldn’t be too harsh. Mom appears to be suffering from a great loss… like dad died or something.

There are plenty of bigots in the world. I get upset when I’m around the rejects that disrespect anyone who’s different. Like that despicable St. John’s football player who was mouthing off about the ‘bitch’ in "Boys Don’t Cry". I still contend that dickhead kicked himself in the balls.

When I was young, dad was scary. He never was physically violent, but at times would verbally lash out. He isn’t nearly as moody anymore. I don’t prefer Pamela to dad. Pamela is more fun. She wants to do things… spontaneously. In some ways she’s immature, almost childlike, but lovable. But, she’s not David. David attended all my grade school plays, he was there to see me graduate from high school, he drove me to my first boy-girl party, he coached my soccer and basketball teams… Pamela is coming into my life at a much later time.

I much prefer dad with Pamela ‘on the side’.

"Tea’s ready Jess," she calls to me. I’m sure she would like to bring a tray out onto the deck and join me. However our deck is in full view of the neighbors. In some regards, Pamela is under house arrest.

We sit right next to each other on stools at the kitchen counter. We’re very close.

 

(continued)

 

 

 

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