Journey to Reality
by Laura Reynolds
Preface
I didn't set out to write this book for fantasy fiction web lurkers. I wrote it only because I have a story to tell. It may amuse you or educate you. It's also possible that you may be stimulated by it. It's the story of an obsession and how I coped with it. You alone will be the judge of my success both in coping with my obsession and in reciting this story.
Know that I'm not looking for your psychosexual fulfillment; in fact, I seek to do no more than set down the actual facts. But, whatever your social or sexual persuasion, whatever your gender, it's not likely you'll be bored.
You may well think of what follows as a confession, a mere sliver of my autobiography; it is but a glimpse of a part of my life that has to this day remained hidden from view, concealed from every person on earth. What started as an annoying curiosity and later became an obsession or possibly even a compulsive disorder, is now a tangled web of secrets and lies, virtually impossible to unravel. But the obsession remains; in fact, it is stronger now than ever before.
The origins of this story occurred long ago, innocently enough, in the recesses of my prepubescent young mind, and within its fertile imagination. And it was solely my imagination that embellished it for many years, passing through my teens and early twenties. Unbelievable as it may seem, as a youth I never allowed my secret thoughts to find fruition in any action.
When I first began to have feelings that something was not quite right, or should I say normal about me, I could not say with precision, nor could I point to any specific trigger event. I do recall that in my eighth year, late at night I began to be awakened or kept awake by strange thoughts. In these thoughts, I imagined myself to be a girl, not just any girl, but a particular girl in my class at school. Her name was Laura O'Brien. She was quite beautiful and a brilliant student as well. In particular, I was drawn to the way she wore her chestnut brown wavy hair, in a ponytail, around the gather of which she wore a delicate silver crown. Her skin was soft and lovely, and her clothes, generally a skirt and blouse or a jumper, were immaculate. I can't remember the first time I saw Laura's mother, but I have memories of seeing Laura being met by a beautiful woman after school, whose looks gave an encouraging glimpse of what Laura might look like in the future. Dark haired and slim, of average height for a woman in her mid 30's, she wore high, narrow-heeled black pumps on her slim, smooth, light colored stocking-clad legs. This magnificently beautiful and feminine woman was undoubtedly Laura's mother. Sometimes, as I drifted off to sleep, I imagined myself to be not Laura, but Laura's mother.
But when I became, in my mind, Laura's mother, I thought of the perfection of her mature – mature, not in the sense of old age, rather, in the sense of physically ripe and emotionally experienced -- womanhood. What I was drawn to in particular, were her nylon stocking clad legs emerging from beneath a knee length skirt and high-heeled black pumps; I had never really noticed ladies' wear before I noticed hers, but when it struck me, even at this young age, it immediately and irrevocably represented the essence of femininity to me. Stockings in those days generally had reinforced toes and reinforced heels. When a woman walked in high-heeled "pumps", it excited me to actually see the darker reinforcement emerge as her heel would move in and out of the shoe as she took each step. I readily admit that I do not fully understand the origin of my fascination for stockings and high-heeled shoes, but without doubt it persists, to this day, as strongly today as it ever did. And even though at that age I was aware intellectually that it was not so –- that a piece of cloth is just a piece of cloth – in my deepest feelings, the way a woman dressed was emblematic of her feminine essence.
Once this feeling overcame me, I thought more and more of Mrs. O'Brien, and of her clothing in particular. The more I thought of her, the more I began to develop a burning desire to imitate her. I can't pinpoint exactly when it occurred to me that emulation might be achievable through my imagination. I envisioned myself as her, or merely imagined myself to be wearing her clothing, at least for a part of the time. Gradually, it became clear in my mind that the wearing of the clothing itself was not the object of my desire, but the means to an end; my goal was to be her. As these desires became vivid, usually in the evening when I went to bed, even when I was as young as eight, my penis swelled and stiffened. I didn't quite understand what was happening to me, but I felt guilty for having these physical feelings. It scared me because I thought I was to be punished for the sin of my feelings by having my penis cut off by God or Jesus Christ. Then, I would feel guilt and deep remorse for mentally indulging my fantasies. Instinctively, I knew my feelings were wrong.
At that age it never once occurred to me to think about being Mrs. O'Brien in her position of being the wife of Mr. O'Brien. I never imagined Mrs. O'Brien as a sexual object, and never thought of her as being sexually active. I had no notion, at the time, of what sexual activity between a male and female was, and I would not know for the next three years. Of Mr. O'Brien during those three years, I retain only a vague memory; for me, he hardly existed at all.
The sinful thoughts and fantasies continued and deepened. My penis grew larger, and nightly it would become stiff and straight. These episodes kept me awake for hours, until I finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. To my parents I would complain that I had "stomach pains" at night, but I came to know that these were phantom pains, masking my real anguish and what I did not yet know to be sexual frustration.
Despite these fantasies, through my young life I was unable to experiment, not in the slightest degree, with either expressing or acting upon my desires in any concrete manner. Stealing and donning articles of female clothing in secret (the kind of thing I've read, as I'm sure you've read, in most all fiction and non-fiction stories of this kind) was for me an absolute impossibility. Try to imagine my very strict household, where I was always under the watchful eye of my parents, our full time housekeeper and my two older brothers, with whom I shared a single bedroom. At every moment I was under the watchful eyes of brothers, parents, aunts, uncles and assorted cousins who visited frequently.
I was raised in the relatively tranquil times of the 1950's in urban New York, the New York of Mayor Robert Wagner and the America of President Dwight D. ("Ike") Eisenhower; before I was born, but just after the great War (WW II that is, not the Gulf War) my parents became fairly wealthy, and I attended private schools through high school. I did all of the things expected of me. Football, baseball and basketball were my games, and were it not for the fact that I was a wee bit too short, and too lightweight, in high school I might have easily made varsity football or basketball, but it was not to be. However, as first-string shortstop for my high school baseball team, I excelled.
The oldest of two boys, I was closely guarded by the watchful eyes of my greater family, four living grandparents and lots of aunts and uncles; nevertheless I had a very full and open life. I mastered virtually every activity to which I was exposed. I loved literature, I adored opera and classical music; I learned to worship the arts, and frequently visited the great museums of New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Guggenheim Museum and the Museum of Modern Art, often in the company of a pretty girl, for I never lacked for female company. Coming from a privileged home allowed me to bypass certain common experiences of most Americans: the privilege of "dining" at fast food restaurants. Frankly, and I say this not in boast, but only to describe the kind of life I led when young, we often had dinner at Manhattan's most expensive and exclusive restaurants, and there were no children's menus. My grades in school were excellent, not leaning in one way or the other towards or away from Math or any of the sciences. As you can imagine, and I write this solely to give the facts, and not out of pride, my college board scores were excellent, near perfect, placing me in the 99th percentile; by the time I reached my senior year of High School, I was accepted on early admissions to a number of fine colleges, both in New York and out-of-town.
From the time I was an eight year old, I was obsessed with female clothing, but I was also very aware that my feelings were not normal, and would not be accepted, not in the least, in my household. Discussions held at the family table firmly established a clear dividing line between the permissible and the impermissible, between the masculine and the feminine realms. Homosexuality was rarely discussed, except in hushed tones, but even at that young age I had heard enough to discern that male effeminacy, which was equated with homosexuality, were forbidden and deviant forms of behavior which would not be tolerated.
For these reasons, I hid my obsession quite well, and never once acted upon my desires. How I wished to slip my legs into shear nylon stockings, and slip my nylon clad feet into a pair of high-heeled pumps! I lay in bed each night with fantasies of actually being a girl, or alternately, a woman. I even chose a name for myself –- Laura, for Laura O'Brien, the girl who was in my class in third grade – but never once uttered the name. I admit there was a sexual aspect to it, even when I was immature psychologically. Before my tenth birthday, I realized that my penis grew and stiffened when I had these thoughts; at first, I didn't know why it happened; but it didn't take long before I understood that my dreams and thoughts were causing me to have pleasurable sexual sensations, and made me quite stimulated.
Of course, there was no access to the internet in those days; however, I also knew I was not alone in my feelings. I knew about the famous transsexual of the 1950's, Christine Jorgensen, and I also knew about a place, The 82 Club, on East 4th Street and Second Avenue in New York, which advertised almost daily in The New York Post, with a picture of a very sexy woman, next to which was written "Ty Bennett is no lady!" I also found, when I was thirteen, a turn-of-the-century (i.e., circa 1900) two-volume work concerning the psychology of sex, by Havelock Ellis. It contained several chapters devoted to what he dubbed "Eonism", a term rarely used today to describe what is now more commonly referred to as gender dysphoria. Incredibly fascinating were case studies in those volumes; one interesting aspect was that nearly all of the case studies occurred in Victorian times. To me, by far the most interesting studies concerned men who, to all outward appearances, were women, who lived as a women but who, nevertheless, had the complete functioning anatomy of a male. The very idea of a male being accepted as a female and to take on a female role was vastly exciting. By the time I found these volumes, my body had matured, and my penis had grown to be quite large when not erect, a shade over four inches, and nearly twice that size when erect, which was a good deal of the time.
Through four years in college I outwardly suppressed, but was never able to entirely abandon, my fantasies. They remained, as it were, entirely within the recesses of my mind. Girls found me handsome, and perhaps more importantly, more mature than the run-of-the-mill boys. With a lusty female partner who was also a virgin, I lost my virginity at age 18, but only after a few bumbling and unsuccessful attempts. I discovered that having sex with a female was generally a frustrating exercise for me; since puberty I had no problem achieving a full involuntary erection at inappropriate times. All I had to do was imagine myself as that girl in class with the beautiful legs, or the one with the beautiful long straight blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. But when I had that same girl with me alone, willingly naked in bed, offering her body to me, it was far more difficult for me to get aroused. Gradually, I learned to close my eyes and feast upon my fantasies, imagining myself to be the girl who was far more alluring than my bedmate, and my erection returned. With practice, and in time, I got to be a pretty good lover, moving on easily to the pleasures of mutual oral stimulation.
I always believed, and I today still believe myself to be, a strict heterosexual; though as a man I had men friends, the very idea of even touching a male, other than a handshake, was abhorrent to me, and a part of that feeling remains with me to this day. I also knew that, given my fantasies, it would be difficult to describe myself as "straight" to an outside observer. In those days, in college, it never occurred to me that my female persona, as Laura, might also be entitled to her own separate sexual preference. If only I had allowed Laura to surface, I might have learned what that was.
After college, I married a classmate, Maureen McLaughlin. She was brought up in an academic household in Boston suburb. She was a very pretty girl, a natural blonde; she was utterly naturally very feminine, extraordinarily bright and charmingly articulate. I fell completely in love with her, or so I thought, and I was sure she would be my mate for a lifetime.
An Irish Catholic girl of strict upbringing who was the product of Catholic schools, Maureen and I had much in common. I went to law school at night; during the day I worked in various jobs as did Maureen, who was pursuing her Masters in Public Administration. Our first apartment, in which we lived for four years, was a 400 square foot studio walk-up on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
For a brief period after our marriage, I actually thought that I had conquered my boyhood obsessions. But not surprisingly, after a few months, my feelings began to return. As in my childhood, I repressed these feelings entirely, plunging even more into diversionary activities, such as my work, extra time at the gym, and even more sexual attentiveness to my wife. These activities resulted in our having three children in rapid succession; first a boy, and then two girls. By the time I was twenty-five, I was a lawyer for a prestigious Washington, DC law firm, and – thanks to a very generous loan from Maureen's parents for the down payment, and personal guarantees from my father (my mother had died that year) for the mortgage -- we moved to a beautiful ranch-style home in Alexandria, Virginia. I worked for ten years, the latter four as partner, and I made more money in each of those years than most people could even dream of earning in a lifetime. But then suddenly, when I was 35 and in the prime of my career, Maureen was diagnosed with cervical cancer, and within a few months of receiving that devastating diagnosis, she died. That was fifteen years ago. Though at the time, I thought my own life had ended, in fact, this became where my fascinating journey actually began.
. . .
New York, 1986
"Be careful with that piano!" I shouted at two of the moving men who were trying to angle the piano through the narrow doorway.
"Don't worry about a thing," the shorter of the two retorted. Indeed, I saw the piano deftly disappear into the next room. Other men came in with heavy boxes and pieces of furniture, lamps, rugs, tables and chairs; then they left with empty dollies, only to return again loaded with more items, all in a seemingly endless march back and forth. In the meantime, the phones and cable television were being installed.
By nightfall, October 9, 1986, I was left alone in my new townhouse on Manhattan's Upper East Side. With my three children in Washington under the loving care and guidance of my younger brother Ned and his wife Corinne, for the very first time in many years, I was alone.
After Maureen's untimely death, so many decisions had to be made. As a high-powered Washington lawyer and as an absentee father I was ill equipped to care for my three children. My eldest, Michael, was only twelve; his two younger sisters, Beth and Lisa, were ten and seven. It just was not possible for me to care for them, that is, unless I was willing to hire a full time domestic servant. It was something I considered, but in the end I rejected the idea, not only because Ned and Corinne offered (and I much preferred my children to be cared for by my own flesh and blood), but because I felt I needed a change and a fresh start for myself.
Accordingly, and rather impulsively, I quit my law practice and arranged for the orderly transfer of client matters and cases to other lawyers in the firm. Then I purchased – for cash -- a magnificent townhouse located on New York's Upper East Side. I decided that I would allow myself one year to explore my options.
I had many friends in New York, and for the first several weeks my days and evenings were filled with dinner parties, theater trips and, unfortunately, some dates that were the result of inevitable attempts of well-meaning people at matchmaking. By comparison with my deceased wife, whose memory was still fresh, very few of the women I met could hold a candle, either as to beauty, charm or intellect. More and more I found myself becoming more comfortable when I was alone.
For Thanksgiving, I returned to Washington, to Ned and Corinne's, to spend the time with my children. We had a wonderful weekend together, and until Sunday, it was not even clear that I would return to my new home in New York. But in the end, much as I loved my family, New York beckoned, and I longed to go back to my freedom and new-found solitude.
Like most everyone else, I went shopping for presents during those weeks before Christmas. However, for the first time in my memory, I did so completely alone. In Bloomingdale's on Lexington Avenue, I was drawn towards the beautiful displays of their designer merchandise, and it was there, on the main floor, that I was struck by the fact that men were purchasing clothing for women -- pantyhose, lingerie, bags, coats, anything and everything, it seemed, as presents. It occurred to me: "Why couldn't I do the same in fulfillment of my fantasies?"
I passed a full-length store mirror and stopped to take a good look at myself. I saw a rather ordinary looking man staring back at me; no doubt a man, with black thick stubble for a beard and wavy black hair, my hands covered, as were my arms and legs, with thick black hair. I thought any effort on my part to wear the clothes of a woman would make me into a laughingstock, a "man in a dress." If it occurred on any day other than Halloween, I'd probably be arrested.
And so, I continued to think as I went home, I would rather live my life in a fantasy than make any feeble attempt at dressing like a woman.
Soon after I furnished the house, it didn't take long for me to realize that I had both the time and the privacy I needed to indulge every secret fantasy I harbored -- for the very first time in my life. Until then I had not so much as put on a pair of panties, or felt the feel of stockings on my naked legs; all of it was in my mind. But I was determined to find a way, so long as there were no half measures taken.
For the next three months, little was seen of me around town, though I spent hours on the phone with my son, my daughters, Ned and Corinne, as I was always conscious and conscientious with regard to the welfare of my children.
. . .
April 26, 1987
"Thank you, I'll be down in a minute," I told the driver, who was speaking to me on the intercom, precisely at Noon.
That year, the 26th of April was a crisp and clear Sunday, with the trees only showing their buds, and the morning chill was still present in the air. It was one of those days when it felt good to be alive. And, for the rest of my life, I shall remember every detail of this day, I thought.
As I emerged from the house, carefully locking the front door, the thought occurred to me that, with the exception of Easter week that ended last Sunday, I had not left the house, not once, in six weeks. But the person who materialized at the front door of my house that morning hardly resembled me as I looked six weeks ago, or even a week ago. The sophisticated lady named Laura Reynolds, who, dressed in a pale blue wool suit and three-inch high-heeled spectator pumps looked like a stylish but classic 35 year-old girl-about-town. If there was any flaw concerning her nearly black hair, it was that its "every hair in place" perfection drew attention to itself. Gentle bangs cascaded down her forehead not quite meeting her highly arched brows. Worn in a shoulder length page-boy style, parted in the middle and angle-cut so that the chin-length front was longer than the tapered back, her hair was perfect, yet still had a natural swing. This was to be Ms. Reynolds' very first meeting with the public.
The driver held the door of the Lincoln Town Car. I could hardly describe the thrill I felt as I locked the front door and turned around to descend the eleven steps to the sidewalk. As a result of my deliberate decision to wear nylon stockings held by garters, rather than pantyhose, I felt each step with a gentle "tug-tug" at my thigh reminding me constantly of my nylon encased legs. That, combined with the cool spring air rushing up my skirt made me feel as though I was enveloped in a sea of femininity. As I reached the pavement, it suddenly occurred to me that the thrill I experienced at that moment would never be greater than this, my very first time outside and outdoors, presenting myself to the world in my feminine persona.
Silently and deliberately, the driver drove me to The Plaza Hotel, not fifteen minutes from my townhouse. There, in the back seat I looked down at my smooth nylon-encased legs, and the graceful way my ankles met my shoes, and I applauded myself for having chosen the sheer black stockings over a more neutral color. How often did I admire legs like these, or even so many not as nice as these, across the width of a bus, or a subway car, or sometimes sitting next to me on a plane or train? In the back seat of the car I crossed and uncrossed my legs several times, trying various feminine poses.
Eventually, the driver stopped at a traffic signal at Park Avenue and 64th Street. Two well-dressed men crossed in front of the cab. One of them looked right at me and smiled. I lowered my head. When the light turned green, I knew we were only a few minutes away so I began to straighten up in the seat. As I did, I glanced behind me, and from the corner of my eye I noticed the same man had stopped and was still looking straight towards my car.
A few minutes later and we arrived at the Plaza. I paid the driver in cash, using my red leather wallet for the first time. The driver once again came around to open and hold the door for me, this time acknowledging me by saying "Madame."
Exiting the car, several men and a number of women could be seen near the entrance. I walked from the car deliberately towards the main entrance. Once again, I felt the gentle "tug-tug" of the garters pulling upon my stockings along with the rush of the fresh cool spring air upon my thighs. There, at the entrance to the hotel, the doorman greeted me, and once again I heard "Madame" uttered softly as I whizzed by. From the grand entrance of The Plaza, I made my way directly into the Oak Room, one of the grandest spaces in all of New York; but it was really nothing more than a very sophisticated and very masculine bar. Finally, casting my eyes upon the familiar, I saw a man whom I thought to be Steve standing at the bar, and, at virtually the same moment, he saw me, Laura Reynolds, his date.
Though Ms. Reynolds was never before today seen out of the house, she did exist; in fact, she had assumed – through a personal advertisement in The Village Voice -- a lovely and attractive persona as a cultured, mature (but not overly so) woman with a pleasant personality, a warm heart and a vibrant sense of humor. No photographs were previously exchanged. We both had decided in advance that photos would threaten to mar the first meeting and would establish a visual expectation, which might not be met in the flesh. Neither did we know each other's last names. To him, I was only Laura. He knew me only as a 35 year old widow, the mother of three children who lived in D.C. with my sister; my deceased husband, Jim Reynolds, was a successful real estate agent, who died two years ago at age 40 from a heart attack. I knew as little about Steve as I told him about me. He was 43, divorced with one child, a teenage daughter who lived with her mother in Philadelphia. Steve had told me that he would be wearing a red tie and a blue shirt.
Smiling broadly at me, I approached him and he offered his hand to be shaken. In shaking hands, I took care to delicately give him the fingers of my right hand only, and to cover the handshake lightly with my left hand. In doing so, I was instantly conscious of my own long fingernails grazing the inside of his palm; I also felt humbled within his powerful grip. But as he shook my hand, he looked clearly pleased, and broke into a broad smile, as did I.
Nearby were two bar stools, and Steve gestured with his left hand toward them, leading me to be seated. He sat down next to me, pulling closer. For a full minute that seemed like ten, we stared at each other.
"How are you? You look wonderful!" We both said to each other simultaneously and we each laughed.
Hearing the sound of my own well—modulated contralto voice, clearly female but not too high, caught me by surprise. I had begun the development of my voice on New Year's Day more than four months ago, but it now resonated like a bell after several hundred hours of fine-tuning and the use of a speech therapist. But it's one thing to practice before a therapist and a mirror, and quite another to be carrying on a live conversation!
"The dreaded moment," he said, "where each of us wonders if the other is some kind of monster, is over. I guess I pass?"
With no hesitation, I said, "With flying colors. And what kind of monster do I look like?" I nervously laughed as he pretended to be sizing me up giving me a one eye with his thumb.
"If good looks matter at all, I'd say I hit a home run." He looked at his watch and then glanced up at me, just as my face broke into a huge blush.
"Now what time was that that we were going to go and meet my parents?" he blurted out, half laughing.
"Just kidding," he added quickly, but unnecessarily, as I burst out laughing.
"What are you drinking?" I said pointing to his drink.
"Johnny Walker Black," he said, pointing his finger as if asking if I wanted one too.
"A little strong for me, Steve. And it is probably a little early in the day as well. I think I'll have a glass of Merlot."
Steve ordered one for me, and I excused myself to go to the ladies' room.
"I'll let you go," Steve said, "on your promise that you'll be back."
"Give me a few minutes," I said, "I promise I'll be back." As I walked towards the toilet facilities, for the first time, I noticed people glancing up from their conversations at me. Not being used to this, I felt somewhat uncomfortable.
(Who the hell do I think I am? There is a man in there that thinks I am a 35 year-old widow out on a date! I should leave and go home right now!)
"Nervous" is too mild a word to describe my feelings as I crossed the threshold of the Ladies Room – the first time in my life as an adult that I had ever been in such a place.
(Am I crazy? I am a well-respected lawyer, the father of three children! What am I doing here dressed like this?)
My heart began to pound. I found a stall in a corner, went in, locked the door and sat down on the toilet seat. I looked down to see my black stocking-clad legs, the V-shaped toe box on my brand new Harve Benard spectator pumps, and I admired how beautiful they looked. I got up slightly and lifted my skirt. Underneath it, I was wearing a quite tight waist cinch, from which six garters held my stockings taut; beneath that was a padded panty, allowing me to have a 36 inch hip below my 25 inch waist. But right now there was a problem. Inside the panty, I had an erection pressed up against my stomach that seemed nearly a foot long.
(Masturbate and get the hell out of here before you get arrested!)
Though sorely tempted to find relief, more so than even that I wanted to extend my excitement and test the limits of my endurance. But I did need time to think through what I was going to do next.
There, seated on the commode, I fished in my pocketbook and took out a mirror. I held it to my face to get a good look at myself as Laura, now out as the female date of this hunk of a man, Steve, without the foggiest idea of what I was going to do with him. I quickly played out all of the scenarios in my mind. Up to now it seemed that they boiled down to only two possibilities: 1) that he would learn I was not a woman when I undressed, or 2) that at some point along the way, I would tell him that I was a man (at which point he would either tell me that it doesn't matter because he loves me anyway, or he would beat me up for the deception).
But the deception itself excited me, and I wanted to hold onto it. When I got an erection, it was because of the eroticism of the female clothing on myself as a man. Had I been born female, it is highly doubtful that I could arouse in myself such erotic feelings merely by wearing the appropriate clothing to my sex. Deception, that is deceiving myself and deceiving others, is the essence of the erotic feeling. Why would I want to end that deception with the revelation of my true gender?
There had to be another way to proceed. My preferred way was to defer all questions as to my true gender; that is, what I wanted to be able to do was to carry the deception as far as it could possibly go. Could I defy the odds? Possibly. It was certainly worth a try. If Steve were the right kind of guy, especially if he were not too pushy about getting me to reveal what is supposed to be my vagina, or my breasts, we could have quite a ride.
But at this point I could stand it no longer. Pulling down my panties towards my knees, my bulging, throbbing and very erect penis was released. I ripped off several sheets of toilet paper and covered the tip of the shaft, holding it, and the toilet paper in my right hand, and the mirror in my left. An odd thing happened. No sooner did I begin to stroke it and I felt a rush like I had never felt before, an orgasmic trembling of my body and an involuntary spewing out of hot sticky cum decreasing only slightly in intensity as my penis continued to pulsate until it was spent. Gradually, my penis began to shrink as I continued to clean it with toilet paper to remove any traces of semen and its characteristic odor.
Minutes later, having freshened my makeup and re-composing myself at a record shattering speed, I strolled back to the bar, barely concealing the glow I now wore from my private and secret orgasm, but now newly determined to drive further into fantasyland with this man. My penis safely tucked away in my panties, having shriveled down to Lilliputian proportions following its outburst just minutes ago, was already beginning to stir the moment I glanced upon the anxious Steve. He gallantly rose to greet me upon my return, brushing my ear with his lips, whispering, "I've missed you. Is everything all right?"
My first thought was that just a few moments ago, when I completed ejaculating copious amounts of my seminal fluid into a tissue in the ladies' room, it was the right time for me to have bailed out. But now, with my penis starting to get aroused once again, it was impossible to do so. With my glass of Merlot sitting there on the bar, and this man who only a few moments ago was a stranger, I felt an unmistakable magnetic pull towards that bar stool. It was still a feeling that I, a confirmed heterosexual man, could not comprehend. It was like a recurring dream I had where there was a cliff, and the more I wanted to stay away from the cliff, the closer I was drawn to it.
Thinking about my foray to the ladies' room, I realized that I might have suspiciously taken too much time, considering that Steve and I had only just met. I needed to make an appropriate excuse, lest he think I was one of those narcissistic women who spend all day in front of the mirror.
"Everything's just fine, thank you Steve. I'm sorry I took so long, but I just had to phone my mother in Los Angeles. She's just recovering from some cataract surgery, and I didn't want to call her too early on account of the time difference."
"How old is your mother?"
"Seventy, but she's very spry and has always been in good health. These cataracts she developed are very depressing." I hated lying like this, but it was near enough to the truth that I wouldn't have any difficulties with it later. Indeed, my mother, who is seventy, had cataract surgery on each of her eyes about four months ago.
"Now tell me Steve, do you have family?" I was trying to shift the conversation away from me.
"Do you really want to know all about the details of my boring family? Or, are you just being polite?" He smiled at me broadly and quite engagingly as he said this, and I smiled back at him. I knew instantly that I liked him and his manner. But was it a female reaction? In truth, I was having a difficult time of it all. He has a very attractive face, I thought, sort of ruggedly handsome. I thought females would find him attractive. Do I find his face attractive? I had never before thought of a man being attractive in a sexual way. Never in my life did I imagine myself to be attracted to males. I was always drawn to females.
Yet I am here for this very purpose, to pose as a woman and meet a man, to arouse him surely, but more importantly, to arouse me. And I am highly sexually aroused, true. But I suspect that my arousal is caused more by his male reactions to my femininity standing as confirmation of my feminine persona. I'm aroused by the idea that I've aroused him. His arousal is a tribute to my outstanding achievement as an actor in the role of attractive female. My high was caused by his applause and appreciation, a kind of standing ovation, if you will, and nothing more. Even so, it was deliciously exciting to imagine myself as this highly successful and attractive fraud.
Having achieved this so successfully, why should I not excuse myself, get out of here and go home? Do I need more? Do I need more than this if it risks the possibility of exposure? How would the headlines read? What pictures would be published in tomorrow's New York Post? What kind of humiliations would be in store for me?
Is it possible that I'm attracted to him just as a female would be attracted to a male? If that were so, what would that make me? A homosexual? No, that's impossible, I could never be attracted to him when I'm posing as a male. But I am not a female either, except that he, Steve, makes me feel like I am one. But truly, I am too electrified – too wired! – to feel, at this moment, like a female!
"I wouldn't think of not being polite, but yes, I do want to hear about your family. I'm told that you can tell a lot about a man by his relationship to his family."
"Well, Laura, I'm flattered that you want to know. But I thought it was about 'the man's relationship with his mother' that was so important."
"You heard that one too? I guess you're right. I suppose, when a woman meets a man, and vice versa, on some level the line from that old song pops into our heads: 'I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old dad'! Need I follow up on that one?"
"Never heard of that song" he said with a mock straight face. "You'll have to sing it to me some time."
"As they say, 'yeah, right'. Is it too soon to ask if I do?" I tilted my head up at him, quizzically.
"Do what?" Again, he looked at me with a mock straight face, his lips slightly pursed. I found this look strangely attractive, awakening new desires within me.
"Resemble your mother, silly" I managed to say, softly. But I was to be disappointed if I wanted an answer. He merely laughed out loud, so loud in fact that several men sitting behind him turned around to learn what was so funny. I had to laugh as well. But then, he did something unexpected. With his right hand, he reached out and grabbed my left elbow, drawing me closer to him. He brought his own face down to within inches of mine and looked deeply into my eyes. With my eyes I could see every pore of his face. Though he was well and closely shaven, each black hair of his beard stood firm as a tree stump. I was fascinated with this face. So close I was that I got a whiff of his masculine odor, a fresh odor that I could not identify, but had a hint of musk and briarwood. It made me wonder if Steve smoked a pipe on occasion. His masculine face, so close to mine, frightened and excited me at the same time. Incredibly, I felt my penis stirring to attention.
"I'd say that this meeting is successful beyond my expectations. I must confess that when I suggested we meet here, it was with the idea that I could quickly exit if I needed to do so. Obviously, that's not necessary." I just stared at him, wondering where this was going. He continued in this vein.
"Do you have plans for the remainder of the day? Or am I being too bold and presumptuous? Though I know almost nothing about you, I'd like to know more, and I thought perhaps we should have lunch and take a walk in the park."
"I suppose it's now time for me to confess," I retorted, "but I purposely made plans with a friend to go to a philharmonic concert this afternoon at Lincoln Center. Like you, I didn't have very high hopes for our meeting." Only part of what I told him was a lie. In fact, I had two tickets for the concert; I planned in advance to have my "friend" drop out at the last minute so that I could continue on with my fantasy, being escorted to Avery Fisher Hall on the arm of a handsome man.
"And now?" He asked firmly.
"It's still early," I said, "why don't we have that lunch? The concert is not until three, and I have to call Melissa to confirm it anyway."
And off we were.
I'll spare you the details of that brief but thrilling taxi ride to the west Side; and to that brunch we ate as we sat at a romantic little table just inside the window of that no-name sidewalk café on Columbus, but just because I've decided to be brief here, don't think for one minute that I didn't take in every detail of every moment. Indeed I was thrilled and excited beyond measure, whether I walked with Steve hand in hand, where even when I felt the smallness of my hand in comparison with his made me very excited and feminine. When I held his, in the taxi, I saw his masculine hand, and I noticed the hair on the back of his hand, and the way the monogrammed cuff of his shirt met his wrist; I also noticed his wide neatly trimmed nails on his stout fingers. Within these fingers, a feminine and delicate hand was embraced; a hand that I even now found hard to believe was my own, a hand with half inch long manicured nails polished in deep pink. I had to wiggle my fingers a bit to insure that I was the owner of that hand.
And but a few inches away from that most delicate and feminine hand of mine was my own penis, throbbing beneath the thin layers of fabric that separated it from his view. So concentrated I was upon my own throbbing penis that I almost completely ignored the fact that my companion in this taxi, my "date" for today also had a functioning organ. As I said, I "almost" forgot; my own urgently throbbing penis would never allow me to forget. Holding my right hand in his left, with both of our hands in neutral territory between us, the taxi lurched leftward, and for a brief moment, Steve held my hand tighter and drew it towards him. In that moment, the back of my hand brushed across the fly of his slacks and I felt a solid appendage; his penis, it seemed to me, was at least as hard and as large as my own.
The reality of this jolted me. Even at that very intimate moment man to man I did not feel myself to be attracted to men in the slightest; I could never, not even at that point, conceive of myself as having a homosexual inclination; and yet, the thrill of my being able, in this disguise, to provoke this reaction in a man, and an attractive one at that, as a confirmation of my own femininity, was delightfully intoxicating. It was as though the fruit of my own successful effort at creating the image of femininity was causing both of us to have erections; yet the fact that he was having one doubled and redoubled my own pleasure for the very reasons that he could not know.
These few hours with Steve were hours rich in discovery for me; before today, I believed that my own feminine desires excluded entirely the world of men. The real reason I had sought out male companionship was to bolster my self-confidence as a woman who could "pass" in normal society; I believed that a woman who was out with a man would be protected from too much unwanted scrutiny. But now, I was beginning to enjoy the minutiae of the entire experience.
During that time, Steve told me some intimate details about his life. He was born in Boston during the depression, the son of Irish immigrants. His father, who rose to the rank of Captain on the Boston police force, was politically well connected, and he remembered Joseph Kennedy (John F. Kennedy's father) frequently being a guest in their home. Steve's mother was a beautiful Irish redhead, from a wealthy family of coal merchants in Dublin. Steve was brought up in the way the privileged were brought up, attending Andover, then Harvard and Harvard Law School.
I became somewhat uncomfortable when Steve began to talk about his career in the law; first, for fear that I already knew many of the characters and players of whom he was speaking, and second, for fear that I might give myself away. Indeed, when he revealed that he was now a senior partner at the venerable old New York law firm of Mason, Cleaves & Delbert I nearly gave myself away and had to leave the table. Two years before, I had just concluded a major trial with the Mason, Cleaves firm as my adversaries – and I had won a jury verdict in excess of $10 million.
With the fear was the rush of excitement. But even as I felt this great excitement welling up within me, I had doubts and second thoughts, misgivings and deep shame. As I looked down upon my beautifully smooth stocking-clad legs, conscious of every fiber hugging every square centimeter of my calves and thighs, I thought, wouldn't I rather that this all be over right now so I could just take off my clothes and lie down on the sofa in the living room to watch an old movie?
When we reached our destination along Columbus Avenue, I tried to exit the taxi in as ladylike manner as possible: legs first followed by body, and just pray that my ankles did not give way in the unaccustomed high heels. They didn't, and Steve came round the other side to help me out. With all the fussing and maneuvering, my raging erection began to subside; by the time we reached the table in the restaurant, it had subsided completely, so much so that I was sure that I had vanquished it entirely.
". . . . did you want to do it now?"
"Want to do what?" I said to Steve, leaning in towards him. I was so lost in my own excited thoughts that I hardly caught a word of what he was saying.
"Call your friend . . . Melissa, was it? . . . . about the concert. Would you like me to ask the waiter to hook up a phone at this table?" Steve offered.
"Oh yes! I mean, no! I'll call her on the public phone, thank you! Would you excuse me for a moment?"
At the New York Philharmonic
Following our brunch, Steve escorted me to the Philharmonic concert. As you probably have already surmised, I had told Steve that my friend, Melissa, was unable to make it at the last minute, due to a family crisis.
Given the extraordinary events of that day up to that point, I thought that perhaps I would settle into my role as a female out on a date, and would relax. I thought, at least, that my penis would remain flaccid and offer me some relief. But it was not to be. It is difficult for me to convey the magnificent waves of feelings that crossed my mind and body over the next two hours, as we went into this venerable hall to listen together to Beethoven and Mozart from our seats in the orchestra. As we walked into that familiar hall in my less than familiar persona, I looked around me and saw many elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, just as I had experienced so many times before in my male persona, but here, oddly from the perspective of an elegantly dressed woman with a secret penis, a fact of which I constantly had to remind myself.
Immediately upon our arrival at Avery Fisher Hall, undoubtedly owing to the effects of the coffee that concluded our brunch, I needed to relieve my bladder in the Ladies' Room. I thus had the privilege to stand in line behind a dozen other women to use the facility, while the Men's Room nearby was not congested. How many times before have I heard women voice this complaint? Little did I know how personally this would affect me! The line quickly became even longer behind me, and we were not moving forward very quickly.
Having practiced secretly at home for months, standing in high-heeled shoes for a period of time was tolerable, but it was not quite second nature to me; yet, as I looked down at my own legs and feet here on this lush carpet, in this very public place and among dozens of other women, I could not quite believe these very attractive legs and shoes directly down from my eyes were my own. Standing there impatiently, I looked up and down the line; many of the women were impatiently waiting, and I was not alone in my feelings. A few yards ahead of me, I saw, and I thought I recognized the coiffure of a woman from behind, a woman I had dated briefly just a few months ago and I kept wishing that she would slightly turn her head for confirmation. She, and I remembered her name as Barbara, was slim, petite and dark haired. Pretty, but not beautiful, what stood out for me (and what made me think I recognized her here), was the way she wore her hair, pulled back alluringly in a French twist, with a golden hair clip fastener in the back. Too, her height, which was a shade less than five feet, almost demanded that she wear very high and sexy heels.
Ned and Corinne had set up my initial date with Barbara. Barbara was a recently divorced woman in her mid 30's. I understood that she came from a wealthy family, had made out quite well in the divorce, which had left her with two kids.
Within a few minutes, this woman turned her head and there was no longer any doubt in my mind that it was in fact Barbara. I can't fully explain why I felt another excited surge rush through me as I confirmed Barbara's presence here, so close to me now, without any knowledge that a man she recently dated is standing just a few feet behind her in those spike-heeled shoes. If she saw me, she gave me no special notice of recognition.
By the time I got to the bathroom and an empty stall, I was no longer thinking of Barbara; my only thoughts were about the possibility of a burst bladder. The door to my stall securely locked, I remembered to lower my panties and free my engorged and enormous penis from a sitting position. There were stalls on either side of mine, and when I looked down at the floor under the walls of the stall (there was a foot gap between the bottom of the metal wall separating the stalls and the floor) I was able to see the shoes and feet of the women on either side of me. On my right, unquestionably, were Barbara's telltale high-heeled stiletto pumps with her foot encased in mocha colored panty hose. Suddenly, the rush returned, now as I held my penis in my hand, my bladder empty, my penis swelled and stiffened once again.
Through the partition, I heard her water pass into the bowl in a soft, long stream, and I decided to say something.
"Damn! Would anyone have a spare Tampax?"
"Don't worry, honey I think I do, just a min," she replied through the partition. And sure enough a few seconds later, a Tampax, in its wrapper, was put through under the partition.
"I don't know how to thank you," I said as I unwrapped it. I then proceeded to work its way up my anal opening, until it passed the sphincter, and I let the string dangle. Within thirty seconds I exploded in orgiastic frenzy, but with only a trickle of semen. I cleaned myself off with toilet paper as best I could, pulled up my panties, straightened my stockings, flushed the toilet twice and left the stall. As I emerged, I was surprised, and flustered, to see Barbara standing at the sink, applying mascara.
"I hope that did the trick for you," she said.
"I'm so grateful," sticking my hand out, "Laura," I said.
"Barbara," she returned, "Laura, is it? Don't I know you from the Patron's Circle benefit?"
I was a bit non-plussed when she said that. Indeed, she did indeed know my male persona from the Patron's Circle benefit dinner back in December. In fact, Barbara was my date for that evening, and when we left that dinner, she stayed over in my apartment, and we made love more than once that night and again in the morning. I remember well that night; it was the first of perhaps a half dozen times that she sucked my penis.
"I was there," I retorted, "but I can't say I remember you. Maybe if you told me what you were wearing, I'd remember!" As I said this, I recalled the very sexy black cocktail dress she wore with spaghetti straps, and despite the cold weather, her black suede high-heeled sandals. Simple pearls around her neck with matching drop earrings and bracelet completed the picture of loveliness that was Barbara that evening.
"Nothing very special, I'm afraid." Little did she know how "nothing special" had excited me on that evening not so long ago. "I can't remember what you were wearing either," she said, looking somewhat puzzled, "but I'm almost certain that we met each other that evening. You do look so familiar, but I might be mistaken." My heart was beating through my chest and my bra, knowing that she had come this close but still couldn't put two and two together. But if she thought any harder about it, she might come up with the answer. In my mind at that very moment, I pictured her figuring out who I really was, like I was watching it in a film – "Oh my God, I know who you are! You're a man!" -- I feared this outcome, even as I was excited by the irony of the entire situation. Here I had dated this woman just a few months ago, and I bedded her down as well, and today she shared her Tampax with me, believing me to be the needful woman in the next stall. Her tampax is now stimulating me in my anus. How many men can say that about a former date?
Moments later, after I had re-applied my lipstick and powdered my face liberally to remove all traces of glow, we both left the ladies' room. So much time had elapsed since we left for the ladies' room that we watched as people began to scurry to their seats and I saw Steve waiting impatiently for me. I hurriedly waived to Barbara as I raced towards Steve and he escorted me to our seats.
"Who was your friend?" Steve asked as we seated ourselves.
"She's just an acquaintance. Her name is Barbara, and she thought she knew me from the Patrons' Circle benefit dinner."
"Were you there?" asked Steve.
"Yes, I was, but I'm not sure if I remember her." The lights became very dim at that moment, and Steve put his left hand on my right thigh, and leaned his body toward me. I yielded to him and allowed the right side of my face to rest on his shoulder. At the same time, I felt the fullness of Barbara's Tampax in my anal cavity as I shifted in my seat. I allowed my mind to drift off as the familiar notes of Beethoven's Pastorale Symphony were played.
During the symphony, towards the end of the second movement, there is a very delicate passage that sounds like birds talking to each other, played alternately by the flute and the piccolo. By the time we got to this point, and my eyes were closed, I had imagined myself to be a princess being held in the arms of my prince, and all thoughts of my previous or other life had vanished completely, and I felt completely at peace here with my prince, my husband Steve, in whom I reposed all of my trust and whom I loved deeply. At that moment, I no longer felt my penis constrained in my panties, nor was it erect.
My right hand was on Steve's thigh, and as that movement ended, I moved my hand a few inches, and it was there that I felt the reality of Steve's penis through his pants; it seemed erect and massive, and I imagined, fully engorged. I kept my hand there during the entire third and fourth movements, just sensing little movements through the fabric with my hand, but without actively massaging it. Near the end of the symphony, and conscious of the fact that the house lights would go on at any moment, I thought, rationally for once, that things had moved a little too far and too fast, and I pulled my hand away. Steve took my right hand in his and brought it toward his groin, but I looked up at him and shook my head, and he thankfully released it.
Indeed, I was aware that this could and would have been a source of great frustration for Steve, in the same manner as I, in his shoes so to speak, had been frustrated in similar episodes in the past. This did not necessarily make me into a cock teaser, I reasoned; it only signaled that I was not willing to let matters get out of hand on first date. But it did make me face one piece of reality: how far would I let Steve go before stopping him from finding out that his lovely Laura was a man?
Rescued by a twenty-minute intermission, Steve and I walked out of the hall hand in hand, and then I suddenly saw Barbara, man in tow, moving towards me. The man at first looked vaguely familiar and then very familiar as he came closer.
"Laura, how did you enjoy the Beethoven? Wasn't it beautiful? Oh, Laura, let me introduce you to my fiancé Rob Feinberg," she gushed. Rob Feinberg, her fiancé indeed! I smiled broadly, suppressing a huge laugh. I knew Rob as a woefully inadequate and inept Philadelphia lawyer, who but for the fact that he had found an administrative position with an insurance company to give him a modest pay check until retirement, would long ago have been disbarred. Years ago, Rob and I were both young associates at the same D.C. firm I had just left last October. Because I knew Rob so well in the past, I had to actively suppress hitting his shoulder and saying "How are you, buddy?"
"Nice to meet Barbara's fiancé Rob. Steve? This is my friend Barbara and her fiancé, Rob."
Rob and Barbara shook Steve's hand, but I think I caught Barbara holding it a few seconds longer than necessary, and she looked dreamily into his eyes as she did that. I don't think she did that purposefully; I feel rather that she was startled by his sheer masculine good looks; if anything, one feels he exudes masculine charm and grace even more intensely as one gets closer. In looking at him again through her eyes, I realized that Steve possessed a kind of sensuality and sexual appeal that is more attractive to women than simple good looks can convey.
"Will you two love birds be joining us in the patrons lounge?" Barbara said, joking.
Before I could respond, Steve had already moved forward. "We would love to join you."
Before long we were seated in the Patrons' Lounge, courtesy of Barbara's membership. Each of us took a cup of coffee. We sat at a square table, with Steve opposite to me, Barbara on my right and Rob on my left. In this manner the men spoke with each other and I spoke privately with Barbara.
"How long have you known each other?" Barbara whispered toward my right ear, but I was sure that Rob could hear her. "He's very handsome! And I can see that you two make a wonderful couple!"
"We haven't been dating that long, but I could tell right away that Steve is a prince," I said, recollecting my dream during the Beethoven. "How long have you been dating Rob? And when did you get engaged? Did you set a date?" I asked in rapid fire order.
"Rob and I have been seeing each other since October," she said, and I eyed her curiously, "but we became engaged in January, as soon as I was able to clear the field of the other contenders." With that remark, I nearly dropped my cup of coffee, now that I knew that during our several nights of bliss, including the night of the Patron's Circle benefit, I was considered part of the "field of contenders" for Barbara's hand. What she said didn't make a whole lot of sense to me either. I had stopped dating her, and it was not the other way around.
From her, I learned that she and Rob were to be married in June in a West Side loft, and because of the religious conflict (she was Roman Catholic –- as I am -- and he was nominally Jewish) they had decided on a civil ceremony. I gave her my (Laura's) address and email, and took hers as well, not letting on that I already had her information.
Following the Mozart part of the program, we did not see Rob and Barbara. The sky had blackened, rain was beginning to fall, and the concert patrons scattered to their cars, the busses and subways very quickly. Steve gallantly ran uptown in the rain sans umbrella and secured a taxi while I waited under a canopy. The rain was wonderfully romantic, and Steve was wet through and through. When we arrived at my townhouse, Steve left the taxi and saw me to the door. That awkward moment (so familiar to me from having been there on the male side), which hinged on my decision whether or not to invite him in, now faced me for the first time as female. I had made that decision hours ago, and had ceased agonizing over it. This was our first, and perhaps our only date. I wanted to string this out as long as possible with my ultimate aim of getting as deeply involved as possible on the emotional level while still retaining my secret. That is, I wanted to have as much of my fantasies as possible. And so, though I knew that I would not invite Steve in, he had no idea what was coming.
At my front door, after I dislodged the lock, I grabbed Steve's face with both of my hands, threw my head back and kissed him deeply for a several seconds, spreading my lipstick all over his mouth. Releasing him, I said "goodnight!" and closed the door. I think I glimpsed a startled look on his face before the door closed shut.
I was in the house for perhaps 10 seconds before a wave of relief poured over me, now that I had succeeded, beyond my wildest dreams and fantasies to be the princess of my own fairy tale, so I took off my suit jacket and kicked off my heels to walk on my parquet floors in my stocking feet. Still, from all of the pent-up excitement of the day, I planned to masturbate at least one more time, and only thereafter remove all of my clothing and make-up, take a shower and relax for the remainder of the evening.
I still felt Steve's warm, moist lips on my own; I could hardly believe that Steve responded to me with such passion, and that I too, in return, had yielded myself to him, taking his tongue in my mouth, feeling him explore deeply around my gums and on the palette of my mouth. I had never in my life kissed a man on the lips before; and now I felt as if I had taken a step into heaven itself.
I settled in a living room chair alone, for the first time in many hours.
That evening
But I was not destined to remain alone for very long. Not more than five minutes passed before I heard the front door bell ring. Who could it be? I wondered.
Back in the kitchen I have a monitor connected to a video camera trained on the front door. I went into the kitchen to check on the camera. Sure enough it was Steve! I pressed the intercom.
"Yes?" I said, "who is it?"
"It's Steve! Laura, I'm sorry to bother you but the taxi didn't wait for me, and it's pouring! Can I just come in out of the rain and borrow an umbrella or something?" I hadn't planned on this, but he sounded sincere. I quickly assessed the situation as not dangerous, so long as I was careful.
"Sure, I'll come to the front door."
When I let Steve in I realized I had to allow him to stay for a while, at least. His clothes were soaked through and through. His Hermes tie – which I knew was a $400 item – was ruined. He left puddles wherever he stood.
I made him stand in the vestibule while I retrieved some towels from upstairs. When I came down with hangars and towels, he handed me his suit jacket, tie, and white French-cuffed shirt, but I made him leave his pants on. I hung his other clothes. I noticed his suit was from Armani; his shoes were German, but I had never heard of the manufacturer.
"My brother might have a pair of pants here that I could lend to you," I lied, but I thought was preferable to having him take off his pants in front of me.
"Your have a brother?" I anticipated this question, as this subject had never come up in any of our previous emails, and was not mentioned at this meeting.
"Yes, my younger brother Bobby lives in Miami, and since he wears only shorts all year, he has me store all his long pants for his New York visits." I continued with my fabrications, getting more deeply involved in a web of deceit.
Indeed, upstairs I had male clothes of different sizes. Over the past three months, with rigorous dieting and exercise I had slimmed down from 165 pounds and a 34 inch waist to 118 pounds and a 27 inch waist, and the waist cinch I was wearing underneath my dress took off another three inches. Even so, I had to use a little ingenuity to find something that would fit Steve, who I judged to be taller than I was by at least eight inches, and possibly more. But I had an idea that an old blue pair of sweatpants I used to wear, were baggy enough (with a drawstring) to fit Steve's waist, and long enough so that when I wore them they dragged on the floor, and so, it would make a reasonable accommodation.
Finding a shirt was a bit easier; I had several "polo" type shirts in loose "large" size; I picked a gray one, and came downstairs with my booty. Just then, Steve emerged from the guest bathroom naked from the waist up and sporting a towel wrapped around his waist.
I was startled to see him this way; all day I was torn between my thoughts of Steve as a man, and not thinking of it at all, and now I'm confronting his masculine essence straight out. There was no time for equivocation. What drew my breath in was his well-developed but not overly developed chest, boasting generous amounts of hair, and his well-toned biceps. His stomach was flat and firm. He looked at me with warmth in his eyes and smiled widely.
"I see you're serious about this, and I'm in no position not to be grateful. Let me try these on," and he grabbed one of the polo shirts along with the sweatpants.
"I'm a very serious girl," I replied. Steve retired to the bathroom while I went over to the den area, and put on the television. I sat on the sofa for a few minutes. The next thing I knew, Steve was standing in front of me, grinning from ear to ear, and wearing the most ill fitting tight clothes you can imagine; the pant legs came to several inches above his ankles, the polo shirt could not be buttoned, and the pants waist was noticeable tight.
"You know, I can't possibly be comfortable in these," he said.
"They'll just have to do," I said, "because if you take them off, I'll send you home naked." Steve chuckled and sat down next to me.
"Is it OK if I just sit here for a while?" he pouted. I had the feeling that he was going to do just that no matter what I said. Even so, I was very interested in remaining the playful female, just so long as I stayed away from danger.
"As long as you behave yourself." But the next thing I knew, Steve had his left arm around my shoulder, and I drew myself to him by resting my head upon his chest. Resisting him was not an option that I considered at that moment.
That left both of my hands limp in my lap, and I knew that my right hand was only inches from his thigh; if I dared move my hand to his thigh, I was courting danger. All the same, it was deliciously tempting to do so. Instead, guided by an invisible desire, I took my left hand, and with an open palm, I placed it squarely on his chest. In doing so, I was acutely aware that the presence of my hand on his chest would be intensely stimulating to him, even through the fabric of the polo shirt; yet I was also intensely aware of being stimulated myself, surprising myself once again with the intensity of my reaction to being with a man, when I, up to this point in my life could discern no homosexual tendency or erotic stimulation from males. But here, contrary to my own history was proof positive. Once again on this day my own penis began to throb, grow and harden, and I was overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure it sent through me.
Could it be, I thought, that I am not actually stimulated by a male in the manner in which a homosexual male would be stimulated; rather, might I be so stimulated because of the validation of my femininity though him? I resolved to explore this further. As I thought these thoughts, Steve took hold of my face in both of his hands and drew me to him slowly with puckered lips. I closed my eyes as our lips touched softly and warmly; I parted my lips as he did also and he probed the tip of his tongue onto my mouth. I was very conscious that this was the first time in my life that any part of a man's body was inside of my own, and with this intense kissing I yet felt safe from discovery and I eagerly kissed him back. On my lips I felt his scratchy stubble, something I was not used to, and yet, it stood as another reminder that I, opposite him, was of another gender entirely, that at this very moment at least I was a utterly and completely a female.
"I think I ought to go," said Steve, "or otherwise, you will no longer think of me as a gentleman." I felt his muscles flex next to my own as he tried to stand up.
"Oh, but you are such a gentleman," I cooed, and then I added, in my head only "and a gentleman may be just what I need in my life." His face was still.
"I try my best," he said, as he rose. "Let's see if my clothes are dry."
As he marched off to the bathroom, I found myself alone and lost in thoughts about my very eventful day; I was overwhelmed by my successful achievement of feminine perfection up to this point, but at the same time, I was anxious to draw this to a quick close, lest something happen to spoil the illusion. And so, I waited for Steve to dress and go with growing anxiety, impatience and a measure of guilt.
To be continued
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