Note from the author: Following my date with Steve as I related at the end of Part I, I rummaged through some of my files and papers to ascertain if I could supply some concrete evidence of the veracity of my story to my readers. As luck would have it, I found and here annex a copy of a letter written in 1997 (offered to corroborate some of the events of ten years ago), followed by a 1998 newspaper clipping from The New York Times; the latter will serve to explain some later events in Part III.
A Journey to Reality
by Laura Reynolds
Part II
. . .
Judith Hatfield, PhD
Speech Therapist
345 West 68th Street
New York, NY 10027
Tel. (212)555-1647
October 24, 1997
John P. McNally, Esq.
146 East 61st Street
New York, NY 10021
Dear Mr. McNally:
I write this letter at your request. You phoned me a few days ago and asked me to confirm the fact that you were a client of mine in 1987 and to furnish you with a written description of the therapy I administered. I acknowledge that I have received your written waiver of any privilege that may have attached to our professional relationship.
As I told you, my records from that period for the most part have been destroyed, but I did manage to locate my appointment books, and of course, I distinctly remember the unique circumstances of the therapeutic process for your case.
In any event, my records show that you underwent intensive speech therapy and voice training at my office from January 12, 1987 through and including March 18, 1987 at which time, it was determined that no more therapy was needed to accomplish your goal. According to my recollection, you came to me in order to effectuate, through training alone, a recognizable change in gender identification of your voice. You wished to make your voice sound like that of a youthful middle-aged educated female. I was not aware of the reason for your request, and I was never made aware of the reason. After we agreed upon the fee for my services, you required me to sign a confidentiality agreement.
To accomplish your goal, we determined to work in three areas – change of pitch, changes in inflection and changes in patterns of speech. Following the commencement of therapy, and after considering and eliminating hundreds of possibilities, we decided to model your voice after actress Anne Archer, for several reasons: her pitch is not unreasonably high, yet her voice is alluringly feminine; moreover, as an accomplished actress, exemplars were readily available.
We met three times per week for two hours, and I gave you exercises to work on at home at least one hour per day.
You were a diligent worker, and though to this day I have no idea why you wanted to undergo the grueling regimen I laid out for you, I believe I faithfully carried out your instructions to the letter and that you were fully satisfied with the results. In your final sessions with me, you will probably recall that I blindfolded myself as we conversed in my office, and I was convinced during the entire time that I was conversing with another woman. You also made several telephone calls on my behalf to confirm appointments, identifying yourself as my secretary, and we confirmed that you were addressed as "ma'am", "Miss" or "Ms." The other day when you called me and I heard Anne Archer's unmistakable voice, I knew immediately it was you. It was nice also to hear you in your male voice mode.
If you need anything further, Mr. McNally, please do not hesitate to call upon me.
Sincerely
Judith Hatfield, PhD
The New York Times
September 23, 1998
Obituaries
O'Hanlon, James T. age 67, of New York and Boca Raton, died after a brief illness; survived by his loving wife Laura, his children Michael and Doris O'Hanlon, James O'Hanlon, Kathleen and David Epstein and seven grandchildren. Funeral at Frank E. Campbell, Madison Avenue at E. 80th Street, New York, September 26th
Aril 27th, 1987 (the morning after my first date with Steve)
After Steve left I was emotionally and physically exhausted, to a degree I would not have thought possible. Without removing any of my clothes, I took two aspirins and lay down on the bed not knowing or caring what time it was, and waking up many hours later, as if out of a coma, with bright sunlight streaming in through the curtains.
I woke up, fully dressed except for shoes, to entirely new sensations. My abdomen was encased in a black waist cincher; four garters, front and rear, hung from it and were pulled taut by my black sheer stockings. As I moved my legs, even slightly, I could hear and feel the stockings crackle. My skirt was riding high up my thighs. My upper chest was heavy with the artificial silicone breasts I had applied the day before with surgical adhesive, the breasts harnessed by a black lace "push-up" bra. I felt restricted by the shell top I was wearing and oddly, my pearls had gotten tangled. On my head, I was still wearing my page-boy cut shoulder length off-black wig with a full lace front. I could even feel my make-up was still on.
Slowly, I got up from the bed; as I did so, I could see my reflection the full-length mirror. Oddly enough, from a distance of ten feet, I looked rather good. There I was, a slim, curvy adult woman, looking only slightly disheveled. It was only when I moved closer that I realized that my makeup, which left dark circles around my eyes and blotches around the rest of my face left me as not presentable. I knew in my mind that I should remove my clothes and take a shower immediately, but I also wanted to prolong the wonderful sensations that lingered within me. And so, while I took off my skirt, my top, my pearls, my cincher and my padded panties, I left my stockings on, I lay down on the bed, removed my penis from its restrictive gaff, and began to fondle it. It came alive with renewed vigor, as I stroked it, first with my right hand and then with my left, and within a few minutes, I exploded with orgasmic energy, soiling the sheets of my bed with copious amounts of semen.
About ten minutes later I removed the remainder of my clothes and went to the bathroom to take a long hot shower.
Easter week, two weeks earlier
I dreaded having to do this, but I love my children, and I didn't want to deny them their father even though they lived with Ned and Corinne. Easter was coming up April 19th. Ned and Corinne, along with my three kids, expected me to be there for them.
I arrived in D.C. at Union Station that Sunday after a four-hour ride, and Ned greeted me at the rail station. I was hoping that he would not notice my lack of a beard, my long hair, or the lack of any hair on my hands and arms, or indeed any of the other changes that I tried to conceal beneath my clothes; I was especially conscious of my now very narrow waist that, without benefit of corset, was just below 26 inches. He saw me first.
"John, you son-of-a-gun! You look younger every time I see you! What happened to you in New York? All the lawyers growing their hair long?"
Well, you know New York!" I replied. "How're the kids?"
"I'd say they were very anxious to see you."
If he did notice anything else, Ned kept it to himself as he drove towards Georgetown, where he and Corinne lived in a magnificent townhouse, very similar to my own in New York, although it was situated on a much leafier, and quieter street.
In truth, my children looked like strangers to me; much as I loved them all, my mind was preoccupied with the myriad details of making myself into Laura and fulfilling my fantasies. Oh yes, we hugged and kissed and I told them how much I missed them and each in his/her turn begged to join me in New York, at least for a while. And then when dinnertime came along, Ned and Corinne announced that they had decided we would all go out to eat. Much to my surprise they invited Maggie Kircher, an old friend of Corinne's, to come along, and there was no doubt in my mind, (or anyone else's) that this was matchmaking at its worst. I had known Maggie for years; she was a very attractive woman, with soft, wavy blond hair and an infectious smile. Recently divorced from a husband who, with his morose personality was ill-suited to her, I could well understand why Ned and Corinne would try to get us together.
But on this night I could hardly consider commencing a relationship with a woman; I had put all of my time, lots of my money and most of my energies into fulfilling my own fantasy of making myself into the best woman I can be; I was not about to allow anything to deviate me from that path.
June, 1987
Along with the deep and satisfying pleasure of my date with Steve back in April came waves of guilt and remorse. For well over a month now after our date, I had avoided any contact with female clothing. For his part, Steve was a frequent caller, but I feigned being too busy to see him, or even to hold lengthy conversations. His calls only emphasized my ambivalence: it forced me to recollect my one complete day en femme, but reminded me of my own limitations and the borders I could not cross.
In the following months, managing my dual genders was relatively easy most, but not all of the time. I screened all my calls with my answering machine, and carefully answered the phone as either "John McNally, Esq." or "Laura Reynolds" as may be required.
Ned and Corinne called once a week or more, and during those calls I got to speak with Michael, Beth and Lisa. After each of these calls, I had mixed feelings of guilt and excitement as I pondered "what if they knew" what their father, brother-in-law and brother had been up to?
Dodging Steve's calls was a bit more difficult, especially at first. He was persistent in a way that was not familiar to me. In saying 'no', I didn't want to put him down or seem hysterical. But I gradually learned the art of flirting with him, even as I softly rejected his advances. I began to appreciate the complexities of being in the position of the one who spurns advances. As Laura, when I spoke to him, I was quite conscious of the fact that I did not then look like Laura; it struck me that he might be wondering, and I hoped he would not express curiosity concerning, what I was wearing.
I still could not bring myself to put on a stitch of female clothing, or even look in one of my drawers. To divert myself, I went out to the movies to see such films as Legal Eagles, The Money Pit and Jean De Florette (a charming and slow-paced romantic French film). I plunged into the reading of classic novels, such as Dickens' Tale of Two Cities and Stevenson's Kidnapped. Even so, I was unable to rid myself of the wonderful, and at the same time, frightening memories of my day as Laura with Steve.
One warm weekday evening in June, just yesterday in fact, I was sitting alone wearing a pair of shorts only, in my easy chair, reading the Dickens classic, and I was nearly half way through. The phone suddenly rang and I turned my attention to the answering machine.
"Laura," I was surprised to hear a female voice call. "This is Barbara Morris calling," she enunciated every syllable into the phone. Rob got your number from Steve, and I hope you don't mind. I'll be home this evening and you can call me . . ."
"Barbara," I picked up immediately. "I was just in the shower when I heard the phone. How have you been since I last saw you?"
"Just fine, Rob says hello, by the way. Did Steve mention that we ran onto him at the ballet benefit on Saturday evening?"
"Actually, no, I haven't spoken to him since Saturday," I truthfully said.
"Really? Steve – well - maybe I shouldn't say this, he came alone to the benefit, and when we asked him where you were he told us that he invited you but you were busy."
"No problem, Barbara, it's true. Steve asked me to go with him, but I just couldn't make the time to do it."
"Well, Laura, I hope you're not too busy to go out at all. The reason for my call is to invite you to a dinner party at my house next Saturday night; I'm having some wonderful guests who I'm sure you'll enjoy. Dress is informal."
"I'd be only too happy to go, Barbara. Is Steve invited also?"
"Of course, he specifically asked me to invite you. See you then."
When I hung up the phone, it was with a mix of fear, trepidation and excitement. The guilt I had been feeling for the past month seemed to evaporate in an instant. Here it was again: the very danger of the situation in which I dared place myself served to enhance my excitement. The woman I –- as John McNally -- dated just six months ago was now having me to her house to dine with her fiancé and other guests. The Patron's Circle dinner last December came to mind, when I wound up in Barbara's apartment, a "classic six" on Park Avenue and 86th Street. There we made love in her bed for the first time, and I was there several times more during the Christmas season, staying overnight on several occasions. I desperately searched my memory for the one possibility I may have overlooked, that Barbara had ever been over to my brownstone, and I couldn't think of a single time. How lucky I was! There was no doubt in my mind that, had Barbara ever been to my home, she would immediately recognize it again. I entertained the thought that if Barbara had been able to connect Laura with John McNally, I would unnecessarily subject myself to close scrutiny, and inevitable explosive exposure of my true gender.
Even so, the situation was not without grave risks, and therefore, building excitement. Not only was Barbara a woman I had dated and made love to as John, only months ago, she was also a woman who socialized with my sister Corinne and her husband Ned. That Corinne and Ned had introduced Barbara to John surely signaled the possibility that Barbara would tell them about Laura Reynolds and her lover, Steve. Just the idea of my being spoken of in that manner to Ned and Corinne sent shivers up my spine.
While I was engrossed in those thoughts, Steve called.
"Hello, Laura!" He could scarcely conceal his enthusiasm. "I was so happy to hear that you accepted Barbara's invitation!"
"I really couldn't say no to Barbara," as I tried to think of something coquettish to say.
"Well, I'm very happy that I'll get to see you again, and I just hope you feel the same way."
"Oh, yes, Steve, I really do look forward to seeing you again."
"Really?" There was amusement in his voice. "I truly thought you were giving me the brush-off."
"I'm truly sorry I gave you that impression, Steve. In fact, I've been really busy lately."
"That's quite alright, Laura. I'm a busy man myself, and I well understand the demands that can be made on a person. And so, I'll keep it short for now. May I pick you up on Saturday night at 7?"
And so, our second date was arranged just like that.
Saturday night and Sunday morning
Barbara was an incredibly gracious hostess last night. My initial trepidation about going to her apartment (with my vivid memories of having been there, as John, only a few months earlier) quickly dissipated after our arrival. For me, it was as if the actual past no longer existed, and the novelized history I had created for myself and for Steve was the new reality. Whereas I had prepared for the evening with a measure of excitement and anticipation at least equal to that of my first date out of the house as Laura just a few short weeks ago, I was surprised to find that once I got to Barbara's home, I was able to relax in my role as Steve's date, Laura.
True, I was not entirely comfortable with the situation I alone created. For one thing, Barbara signaled her intentions quite clearly to bring me into her inner circle of friends. It crossed my mind that if I were to yield to her desires for friendship, no doubt it would entail an entire series of commitments to participate in a variety of female-oriented activities. I envisioned an array of group shopping trips, midtown luncheons, charitable auctions, book clubs, garden clubs, theatre matinees and endless telephone gossip.
But despite my reservations, overall, I was made happy by the wonderful compliments I received from the other women. The women were very stylishly dressed. How fortunate I was to have chosen a tasteful, but sexy 1950's style short black dress that I had purchased through mail order. Made of soft jet-black rayon velvet with a satin bow and brooch on the front and a satin flounce at the back, the neckline plunged to a very flatteringly deep, sexy "V". The skirt was not particularly full, and when I was seated with legs crossed, several inches of my barely black sheer stockings above my knees were exposed, all the way down to my black suede pumps with the three-inch heels. Those heels I chose precisely because, in my view, they fell "on the line" between elegance and overt sexuality.
Though I think it was when Barbara asked me, early in the evening, to join her in the kitchen that I really felt I was just one of the girls, at least, that is, until my swollen and engorged penis throbbed and reminded me otherwise.
"Laura, could you just check the fridge for several bottles of that terrific California Chardonnay? I think they're on the door!"
They were not too difficult to find, even in her cavernous Sub Zero double-door refrigerator. (I thought, it is especially not difficult for one who has removed many a bottle from that refrigerator before!) "Got them!" I sang.
"You really seem to know your way around my kitchen," she smiled. "Does Steve have any idea about your culinary talents?"
"I think you're jumping to conclusions, Barbara. All I did was find the wine."
"Well, if you can find a good wine to keep everyone happy, who needs dinner?"
"Touché! Is Rob happy with your cooking?"
"What Rob doesn't know won't hurt him. He thinks I'm a great cook, but the truth is, I bring in most of my meals from this wonderful Italian Restaurant – Emilio's – around the corner, and then I boil some water in a pot to make tea and coffee. I don't think he's ever been in the kitchen during mealtime."
"I haven't actually cooked for Steve, or even pretended to," I said.
"All in due time, Laura. But take it from me. Steve adores you, and unless he's a food critic, every meal you serve to him will send him to heaven. I've seen the way he looks at you, and the way he treats you like a princess. Trust me, Laura, I can tell when a man has fallen head over heels for a woman. Delightfully, Laura, you are the kind of feminine woman a man could easily love."
"Why thank you Barbara, but really . . . ."
"No, don't thank me, it's obvious, you have the looks, personality and charm any woman would die for . . . ."
"It's really very embarrassing for me to hear you say that . . .."
We spoke in this vein for several minutes. I looked at Barbara straight in the eye when we spoke; amazingly, there wasn't a hint of recognition on her part. She spoke to me as if I was just an old girlfriend, and not the man who had wined, dined and bedded her down only a few months earlier.
As for me, I wondered if others could discern my growing excitement. I could feel my penis straining against my gaff, and I wondered, what part of my excitement resulted from me, a man, being in the intimate presence of this beautiful woman, Barbara, who still had the power to seduce me, and what part resulted from feeling my body surrounded by all the accoutrements and odors of my own faux femininity? I could not answer this question then, or now.
Adding to my excitement was an appliance, actually an anal stimulation device, which I wore for the first time "in public". It is commonly called a "butt plug". Though I had never before considered myself a person in need of constant physical stimulation, a few weeks earlier, I had experimented with a number of such devices, dildos, vibrators and such. Yes, I had a not-so-hidden goal of readying myself for the possibility (or the inevitability?) of eventual anal penetration by a male lover. In fact, after a few tries, I found the sensation of having my anal cavity filled this way so pleasurable, that I looked for, and found a number of suitable devices. These "butt plugs" differ from the dildos in that there is widening of the shaft designed to hold it inside, above the sphincter. I found to my delight that it can be worn comfortably over long periods of time. And so within the past weeks, I have taken to lubricating myself generously and inserting the device, leaving it there while I sleep, or watch television, and occasionally while eating. While getting dressed for Barbara's dinner party, I decided to inaugurate it for going out.
One of the accidental byproducts of wearing a butt plug is that it forces the wearer to keep one's pelvic muscles tight and to control any involuntary contractions of the lower bowel. The fact that this could become a difficult chore in an evening where I would be eating dinner (when such contractions could be reflexively triggered) only added to my excitement. Besides, if I had to remove the plug for any reason, I could retire to the bathroom where I could remove it, clean it and safely tuck it into my handbag.
And so, here in the kitchen of her Park Avenue apartment, as Barbara spoke to me "woman to woman" in this intimate way, I was overwhelmed with physical and olfactory sensations so overpowering that I feared I might lose control and risk exposure with its inevitable devastating consequences.
But now, based upon what Barbara was telling me, what began to concern me more than either the uncontrollable swelling between my legs or the penis-substitute inside my anal cavity was my anxiety over the possibility that now – far too soon -- my hand had played out and that there was little more I could do to push the envelope with Steve, without an unacceptable risk of inevitable discovery. If what Barbara told me was true, what Steve would be looking for is a serious relationship, something that I, a part time woman on the surface only, could not give him. But it amazed me to think of the possibility that Steve felt this way, even though we had only been out twice and we had never, not once, made love.
". . . . trust me, Laura, I have enough experience with men to know when they are smitten, and believe me, Steve is."
I did not need to respond. One of the guests, Mark Goldwasser, peeked in and interrupted us. A fairly tall, good-looking middle-aged, recently divorced man, Mark was very pleasant, with a good sense of humor. I had heard that he was a Vice-President at one of New York's private banks, a place where as a lawyer I had sent some of my own wealthy clients with the proceeds of their trial winnings. He had not brought a date; Barbara had paired him at the dinner table with Joanne Wallace, a rather attractive but very conservatively dressed single woman. Joanne was a Madison Avenue advertising executive. Though I just met Mark for the first time that same evening, I wondered if Barbara had also dated him at one time; it was obvious, from the way they interacted, that they knew each other rather well. From my other observations during the evening, it was likewise obvious that he had no interest in Joanne.
"Is it true that you have another magnum of that Pinot Noir hiding in here?"
The wine rack was nearby, above the sink, and I smiled at Mark as I turned around to reach for it. As I got up on my toes, I felt my heels slip out of the backs of my pumps; it didn't occur to me what I might have looked like from behind until I felt Mark reach up behind me to grab the bottle. I'm sure I blushed as I felt his just under six-foot frame rub up gently against my back.
"Here, let me get that for you," he said gallantly. "Why don't you sit down and allow me to be a gentleman?"
"Thank you," I said in a meek voice. "It only now occurs to me that I haven't sat down all evening." He held the kitchen stool as I sat down. As I felt the hard stool press up directly on my butt-plug, pushing it up and deeper inside of my anal cavity, sending waves of pleasure and delight up to my brain, it had the effect of hardening my already quite erect penis.
"It's very hard for me to believe that in all these years I've never met you, Laura," Mark said. "Where did you live before you came to New York?"
I turned to face him. "Washington, do you know the city?"
"Quite well, in fact, but I've never stayed there for more than a few days at a time. Still, I'm sure that had I seen you before I would have remembered."
I felt myself blush as he said this. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mark."
In this manner it gradually unfolded that Mark was clearly interested in me as a potential date and I did not discourage him. Again, I had to wonder, was my interest more in succeeding at the game than in the game itself? Not only did I want to masquerade successfully as a woman, did I need to be the greatest coquette who ever lived? I could not deny the stirrings in my loins, my throbbing penis sending wave after wave of pleasure to my brain as I looked at Mark, and he looked at me through my glass filled with red wine and held by that slim hairless hand with the half inch long perfectly manicured feminine nails, which happened to be mine. As a constant reminder, the butt-plug was firmly in place, and it sent sparks up my spine every time I shifted slightly in my chair. Yes, I think a great deal of pleasure was in knowing that I had fooled not only Mark, but everyone else.
I thought of that delicious kiss Steve and I shared that night, and I wondered at the same time, how far could I push the envelope without tearing it? I had never touched another man's penis in my life, but instinctively I knew that the time was coming near that – whether I liked it or not -- I would not only touch another man's penis, but I would put it in my mouth, I would suck him, force him to ejaculate and pleasure him as a woman would pleasure a man. I would do this not because I was gay, and not because I was a hormonally driven woman, but because in doing what a woman would do, in imitating exactly the feminine essence, and proving to myself that I had done this, I would be fulfilled. Men were only important to establish my success at achieving femininity.
But the man I choose, whether it would be Steve or Mark or another wouldn't be satisfied for very long with my sucking and playing. It wouldn't be long before intercourse would be demanded. How long could I keep it at bay before calling it off? Would I be able to prevent the man I was dating from ever seeing the naked me? Will I ever take a man's erect penis in my rectum? In entertaining these thoughts, should I cast aside any notion that I am heterosexual? Why don't I just admit to being a homosexual? If I am indeed a homosexual, why do I need to masquerade as a woman? Should I claim to be a lesbian?
Or did I want to have myself surgically transformed into a woman? But the pleasure my penis brought me, even now, made it impossible for me to think of life without it.
The rest of the party passed as a blur, and long after midnight Steve took me home.
"I'd invite you in for a nitecap, but I think we're both very tired and maybe we've already had one too many," I smiled, hoping not to turn him off, but not let him come in.
"I was hoping only that you'd allow me one kiss goodnight," he said softly and moved his face towards me. Suddenly I felt his soft lips touch mine; and the hinted odor of red wine on his breadth was enticing; I felt enveloped by him and hardly noticed that he pulled me toward him with one hand behind my head and the other at my back. My head back and tilted upward towards his embrace, I allowed myself to imagine my feminine self being consumed by him, and in that moment I felt like a little girl, protected and warm. And I felt at that moment the bra confining my chest, and the heaviness of my faux breasts pressed against his chest, the tug of the garters on my stockings, the teetering of my narrow heels, my wet lips and my own powerfully feminine odor, and with all that the straining of my powerfully erect penis within my gaff and my butt plug skewering me and pushing against my panties all as I was kissing him so deeply, and I felt so powerfully emotional that I began to cry.
"What's wrong Laura darling?" Steve pulled away ever so slightly examining my face.
"Nothing, really, I've just never been so happy as I am at this very moment!"
"But . . ."
"Sh . . . I must go, goodnight, and thanks for everything Steve, really, I mean it."
When he turned to go, I stepped in and closed the door. I stood there, just inside my front door, filled with emotion and excitement. I could hardly have imagined just a few short months ago that I would be accepted in this way, desired as a female by men, and admired by women. Positively, my penis was straining, my butt plug continued to rub gently inside me sending me continuous waves of pleasure.
I could not bring myself to kick off my heels, much as my aching feet wanted me to. I could not help staring in the mirror at my stocking-clad legs, trying to savor how it must have affected the men at the dinner party. I moved a chair over opposite to the mirror, and sat down in such manner so I was able to see how my dress rode up upon my legs. I began to pose this way and that, so as to simulate what I must have looked like to that dinner crowd. Of the illusion thus created, I was quite delighted.
While in that chair, I slipped off my panties and the gaff underneath. I still wore my garter belt and stockings, but my penis, engorged and enormous, sprung out. I grabbed a tissue from the side table and with my right hand I gently massaged it. Within a few minutes, copious semen spurted out from my penis, giving me the orgasmic relief I so sorely needed.
When I awakened from a deep sleep I was surprised to feel the wonderful sensation of the butt plug in my anus as I squirmed, and to see myself in the mirror, seated in that chair. It was daylight, and I had obviously been sleeping there for hours. It was the first time I had ever slept in my garter belt, stockings and high-heeled shoes. My penis maintained an enormous morning erection, but I had no thought of stimulating it further. I pulled myself up and staggered to the bathroom. There, I easily but slowly removed my butt plug and urinated; my erection slowly subsided.
* * *
During the rest of the summer of 1987, which was a fairly hot one in New York City, I dated sparingly and "played the field". This turned out to be a rather successful strategy in fending off unwanted intimacy. But perhaps I was overly cautious. The inevitable increased intimacy I craved –- manual and oral stimulation -- also seemed to elude me. In part, I blamed the weather; in the incessant heat and high humidity I felt less driven to dress glamorously. In fact, clothing of whatever gender seemed burdensome and heavy.
I did manage to purchase two wonderful once piece bathing suits. Both of them assisted in the concealment of my penis behind my gaff, and give me the illusion of a female figure besides. I bought them because in July, Mark invited me to spend a weekend out in his beach house in Easthampton, Long Island. I agreed to go on condition that I have my own bedroom, and he readily accepted my condition. I had such a fine time that first weekend in July that I had no hesitation in accepting his offers to me of three more weekends for the remainder of the summer.
Easthampton was socially very advanced. On the very first Saturday night I spent there, Mark took a very reluctant me to a party for the rich, the famous and the beautiful. The invitation took me by surprise, and as a result I found myself in town shopping for "a little black dress" to wear for the occasion. In subsequent weekends in Easthampton, I made sure to bring appropriate clothing for cocktails as well as the beach. But by then, I was completely relaxed in my female persona and I no longer had any fear of "being read". Mark somewhat jokingly started to introduce me at parties as his fiancée. I just smiled about it. In a way it helped me forget entirely about my penis and my male hormones – almost. Unfortunately, I could not prevent the publication of my photo with Mark and a gossip caption in a local Long Island newspaper.
At night when we came home to his palatial beach house, we sat on the sofa, held hands and merely kissed, like two teenagers. Sometimes I thought I was lucky to have found a handsome man who respected me; sometimes I thought he was afraid of intimacy; and in paranoid moments I feared that he was not attracted to me. Whatever the real reason, it allowed me to let my guard down, as I had no fear of him finding out my secret, if ever. As a result, I allowed myself to grow to like him, in a non-sexual kind of way. Because of this growing mental attachment to Mark, my fear of sexual intimacy with him increased. I knew that had we opened that door, it would be one step closer to the end of our relationship. Our relationship was becoming too valuable to me.
Steve continued to pursue me that June and July, though he seldom found me available for more than a casual dinner at a midtown restaurant; I know he was quite jealous of my invitations to Mark's Easthampton home. But I made quite clear to Steve that I was not committed to him, though I enjoyed his company from time to time. Though I remained flattered by the attentions of a handsome masculine man, secretly I found myself getting somewhat bored and growing away from Steve and his overt sexuality. I was far from ready to reveal myself to a potential lover in any manner, shape or form. In addition to guarding my secrets jealously, I felt I wanted to experience development of my female persona in more sophisticated directions. True, I felt less comfortable with Steve because I sensed that he was using every opportunity to push the envelope further than I wanted to go. I wanted to always play near, but not so close as to get burned by, the fire. In the back of my mind I hoped for the impossible romance I could never have with a man who did not and who would not know of my true gender.
* * *
During the spring and early summer of that year I spoke to Ned and Corinne and each of my children (Michael, Beth and Lisa) at regular intervals, which over time amounted to two or three times per week. When they called me, they called me on my cell phone. When the cell phone rang I answered in my "old" male voice, "John McNally speaking." I maintained two land lines also in the (212) area code; one, billed to John McNally, was not listed, and the was billed to Laura Reynolds, carrying a listing in the Manhattan phone directory as "L. Reynolds".
When, as John, I spoke to anyone on the telephone, I found it amusing and exciting to be seated in front of a large mirror. I can't fully explain why this, but the very idea of speaking to someone in my normal male voice while in appearance I was nothing short of a beautiful young woman posing in a nightgown with bare or stocking-clad legs, a butt plug pressing into my anal cavity, posing in the most feminine manner, tousling my hair, running my fingers up and down my thighs, was immensely stimulating. Inevitably, at the conclusion of one of these calls, my penis would be engorged, enlarged and stiffened to the point of climax and beyond.
Because this was part of the plan we had devised in the fall of the previous year when I moved to New York, I knew that at some time during the summer, while my children were off from school, Ned and Corinne would bring them to New York for an extended priod, perhaps a week or two, so that they could spend some quality time with their father. Since by the time July rolled around I was living virtually my entire life as Laura Reynolds, I wasn't quite sure how I would be able to switch back, even for a brief period, to become John for the sake of my children.
The complete irony of the situation did not escape my notice; probably I should be labelled a pervert for becoming erotically stimulated while talking to my children on the phone, and yet, I wanted to be sure that they would be protected. I rationalized that it was not they who stimulated me, it was I who stimulated myself by the very situation that I alone created. If I choose to speak to you on the phone when I am nude, that's my business and not yours, correct?
Eventually, for the summer plans, I agreed that Ned and Corinne would bring the children up to New York in mid August, and they would stay with me until Labor Day. Ned and Corinne would go on by themselves up to Canada for a well-deserved vacation.
Mark, Steve, Barbara and all of Laura's recently acquired friends were told that Laura was going to Europe for the month of August and she would return after Labor Day; during that time, Laura'a house was to be sub-let to a lawyer from D.C., John McNally. My plan was to use the first two weeks of August to re-masculate myself and seal off Laura from discovery.
Though I thought that two weeks would be plenty of time to re-make John as the way he was, I had failed to account for the enormous effort required to undo what had already become second nature to me. Though six months before I still looked and acted like a man, I had to remind myself now not to cross my legs when I sat down, not to swivel my hips as I walked, not to put one foot in front of another, not to grab for my handbag to find a compact, and not to smile so often. And when I walked, I noticed that my arms we open, open palms facing forward; I had to remind myself to reverse my arms. I hated to think about losing my carefully sculpted nails, but I wanted to make sure there wasn't a trace of polish on them, or any extra length at all. I was sure that my children would notice something. Yes, I did go the Washington in April for Easter week and saw Ned and Corinne and the kids that week. Then they saw me with my long hair pulled back in a pony tail, they saw my hairless arms, or perhaps they didn't notice. They saw my 26 inch waist, but I was able to conceal it with a jacket. And now my waist was closer to 24 inches and sinking. Would I be so lucky this time, here in the heat of the summer? Perhaps my children would be giving me closer scrutiny, if anything, in my home.
What would I do with Laura's now extensive wardrobe of fine clothes? I had enough undergarments to stock an entire "Victoria's Secret" store; I had drawers full of hosiery, garter belts, bras, camisoles, shapewear, swimsuits, blouses and tops; I had clothes racks of dresses, skirts, slacks; and I had shoes and boots in all different heel heights and colors. And I had a red fox jacket, a Russian sable coat and a mink stole as well. After thinking about this during June, I decided to move Laura's entire wardrobe to the large walk-in closet adjacent to the master bedroom and simply lock it. At the same time, I decided to temporarily de-feminize the bedroom by having my bedding and the draperies sent out for temporary storage and cleaning, replacing them with inexpensive but more masculine blinds.
The more I looked in the mirror, the more I worried about my now tiny waist becoming a cause for concern, especially as my children and I would be in close quarters for more than two weeks. The other worry I had was with respect to the butt plug. By August, I had worn it so often and for so long that I planned on retaining it, even as I sought to "impersonate" John. I thought about the possibility of wearing a girdle with a padded waist, but instead decided to wear baggy pants either with shirts not tucked in, or sport-jackets, even in the heat of the summer. As to the butt plug, I left that to the last minute, and decided that I could not live for two days, no less two weeks, without it.
September 8, 1987
Now that they are gone, I think that most of the things I did to insulate and protect Laura Reynolds from discovery were unnecessary. I just completed taking a long bath and this is the first time in many weeks that I've been able to sit down and write. Yes, I took the bunch of them to Penn Station yesterday and except for the fact that the train was a bit late, everything went as well as could be expected. The same could be said also for all of the events, or rather non-events, of the last two weeks. With all my worry in advance of their arrival, I had simply forgotten that children live in their own world, and they don't spend all of their time prying into the adult world. When I put them in front of the television, they see nothing around it.
Michael, now twelve, performs admirably as big brother to his two sisters, and they follow him. What I worry about most -- my guilt over having deprived them of having a full time father after their mother's death -- is something that does not seem to bother these kids, as it seems that Ned and Corinne are giving them all the love and affection they need.
We did all of the New York things that tourists do. We saw "Cats" and "A Chorus Line". We went to the top of the Empire State building and then again to the top of one of the twin towers at the World Trade center. I took them to lunch at Sardi's. I would have taken them to the Opera just to expose them to some culture, but the time of year was not right; the Metropolitan Opera did not open its season until late September.
After walking around the city for a few days in my masculine attire I was self conscious only concerning the butt plug, because I had to resist "swiveling" my hips even more. It was a great challenge to maintain my masculine gait with the butt plug constantly shifting in my anal cavity.
When not actually watching a game on TV, Michael talked about nothing else but baseball and football; in truth, these were topics that were almost foreign to me. I loved both games, but I stopped keeping up with the teams and the players long ago when I was in Law School. There was simply no time for spectator sports while working and going to school. Michael told me about all the teams and players, and we had a good time as I told him about the teams and players of the past -- the old Dodgers and Yankees in particular.
With Beth and Lisa, it was at once more simple and more difficult. They had girlish concerns, with which I inwardly related, but found myself unable to respond in the motherly way I wished -- for fear of appearing to be emasculated. When I overheard Lisa talking to Beth about nail polish; I wanted to take her in my arms and put her nail polish on, and then take both of them shopping for new clothes. But I felt that my showing too much interest in girl's things would betray me.
One day, a Tuesday afternoon, I was walking with my children in midtown, near Rockefeller Center, and I had a close encounter with Mark, which shook me up. We were walking hand in hand southbound on Fifth Avenue on the easterly side of the avenue. At the corner of 48th Street, which runs eastbound, we were stopped by a traffic signal and a "DON'T WALK" sign. The weather was clear and warm, in the high 80's, and I was not wearing my jacket. I was wearing a loose flowing shirt.
Just as the signal turned to the green illuminated "WALK" sign, we began to cross the street and the wind picked up, billowing up my shirt from underneath and briefly exposing my waist -- until I could let go of Lisa's hand to smooth it down. Coming towards us plain as day was Mark Goldwasser. I was so shocked to see him in this context that I couldn't help but stare, and I'm 90% sure that I caught his gaze as well! But we just kept going and I didn't give it another thought, that is, until now.
But other thoughts have occupied my mind in the wake of the visit by my children. Am I ready to return to the life of Laura Reynolds? Or should I stay as John McNally and shed all of my feminine pretensions?
I didn't have to think too long about my options. Instinctively, I knew that, whether I acted upon it or not, whether I liked it or not, and long before I even knew her name, I had to admit I always was Laura Reynolds. And, having been released from the constraints of her early life as a figment of the imagination, she was not ready to call it quits. And so, after two solid weeks of speaking in my masculine baritone voice, I gave it a rest last night, and decided to return to my "natural" alto feminine voice in the morning. Or at least I would try.
* * *
That evening, just as I emerged from my bath, Barbara phoned. Wearing only my cotton robe, I answered, but not before grabbing the K-Y lubricant and my "can't-be-without- it" butt plug.
"Hello?" I said in my newly re-discovered Laura (alto) feminine voice. I unscrewed the cap on the K-Y bottle slowly. For a moment I thought it might be Mark or Steve.
"Hi, its Barb! Were you expecting someone else? We must get together so you can tell me all about what's doing in Paris! While you were abroad, Rob hinted that we might take our honeymoon on the Champs Elysee."
"I'm sure there is nothing I can tell you about Paris that you haven't heard before." Squeezing a glob of lubricant onto the middle finger of my right hand, I inserted and began to slowly swirl the lubricant around my anal cavity. It felt wonderful, with waves of pleasure shooting through my body. My penis was stiffening as I spoke and massaged my anus.
"Well, it's been a few years since I've been there, but I think it's wonderfully romantic. Do you think it is still?" My butt plug now in hand, I began to push it slowly inside my waiting anus.
"Yes, I think it's one of the most romantic cities on earth." I was making slow progress with the plug.
"Where did you stay?"
"I stayed in a small hotel on the Left Bank; it was a bit noisy and I wouldn't recommend it for a honeymoon. Tell me then, what's been happening here in New York while I was away?" The butt-plug at that moment went past the sphincter, and I gasped at that moment, and then relaxed as the base of it firmly nestled between my cheeks.
"Not very much in the heat of August. Oh, we've been back and forth to the Hamptons a few times, but it all gets quite boring, seeing the same people every weekend. Aren't you curious about how Mark has kept himself occupied?"
"How is Mark?" I feigned slight disinterest. I moved around in my chair, feeling the butt-plug moving inside me, sending waves of pleasure through my body and into my brain.
"I really should tell you something to make you a little jealous, but if I did, it would be a lie. It seemed to Rob and me that Mark spent the time alone." Then she added, "You did go to Paris alone, didn't you? And is that handsome Steve still in the picture?"
I was getting a little uncomfortable and I desperately sought to deflect these questions.
"Yes, I did go to Paris alone. There's nothing wrong with that, is there? Anyway Barb, why don't we "do" lunch early next week and we can talk all about it?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth. That's why I called you."
So we set a luncheon date for the following Tuesday at a downtown restaurant. We then said our good-byes.
The irony of the situation continued to amaze and excite me. As John, I dated and had sex with this woman less than one year ago, and now that I transformed myself into Laura she acts as though I'm her old girlfriend from college. Did I need any further proof of the validity of my transformation?
But as a heterosexual male in at least a small part of my life, even now, why is it that my passion for her was no longer there? Yes, I am aroused, but in the same way that I am aroused from fooling people. I recalled making love to her with all the passion that a man can muster with an attractive woman, although today, from my perspective as Laura, that memory seems like it belongs to someone else.
I pondered what she had said about Mark. I wasn't really surprised to hear it, for I in fact suspected that Mark's approach to me had turned dangerously serious. But it did bring up the subject that I consciously avoided. Simply stated, how could I possibly keep a romance going with this man based on a false premise? I was living in a fairy tale dream world, where I hoped to play the beautiful princess, and be romanced by the handsome prince, but in my fantasy I would never have to take off my clothes. His inevitable discovery of my stiff, engorged nine-inch long penis, not to mention my lack of breasts and lack of a vaginal cavity, would surely instantly shatter both his romantic "spell" and my own fictional delusion.
What is it about my secret that arouses me so? Is it that the more I am able to fool people into thinking I am a woman, the stiffer I get?
This morning I unlocked the door to my walk-in closet. It had been several weeks since I had appeared as Laura, and it was comforting to see all of my lingerie, dresses, shoes and hosiery neatly arranged all in boxes and hangars, waiting for my return. Now that I had once again depilated my body I was anxious to try on my lingerie. During the last few weeks I was surprised to find that I grew to miss the weight of my silicone breast forms on my chest.
After cleaning both the wonderfully weighted forms and my chest with rubbing alcohol, I proceeded to carefully attach the "C" cup breast forms with medical grade adhesive spray. I had previously experimented with various alternatives such as tapes, but by late spring I had concluded that silicone forms attached with medical adhesive were best for long-term use, unless and until I had implants. But I knew that I did not really consider implants a possiblity. In fact, any kind of change that could prove to be irreversible was a change I would not consider.
Thinking seriously about Mark, I was desperate to find a way to push the envelope to its furthest reaches. Fully awake while waiting for my breast forms to fully adhere, a hundred scenarios passed before me. Manual and oral sex for sure could get me a long way, especially with a man like Mark who is not too aggressive sexually. If I were to be the sexual aggressor, perhaps that would help to advance the relationship, but leave my secret relatively safe for a time.
I must admit that the thought of Mark and the time we spent together in the early part of the summer excited me. In particular my thoughts turned to memories of Mark's joking when he introduced me around in the Hamptons as his fiancée; thinking about the prospect of actually being his fiancée conjured up images in my mind of a part of a woman's world opening up to me that was previously closed. Yes, there was the idea of shopping for and being fitted for wedding gowns at Vera Wang's on Madison Avenue, as one of those quintessential bride things to which nearly every woman aspires. But it was much more than that; it was my idea that as a bride, I would be considered a model of femininity; it was an aspiration that up to now I dared not think about. The notion that I, formerly a high-powered corporate lawyer in Washington, the father of three children, could be a bride, a wife, (and perhaps a mother?) sent chills up and down my body and through my brain. A bride! Me? The very essence of feminine allure would be mine! My ultimately fantasy would become reality! But the true reality also set in. Unless she was a complete orphan, or an immigrant from a foreign country, a bride would have a family, a history to be verified by the groom's snooping relatives. What college did she go to? What sorority did she pledge? Where did she grow up? Was she a cheerleader on her high school team? Does she have married brothers and sisters, nephews, nieces, aunts and uncles, kissing cousins perhaps?
It was too exhausting for me to resolve all of these inconsistencies for my fantasy fiancée; so I retreated back to other less taxing thoughts.
I had no thought of going out at that moment. I wanted to stay home and savor every moment of my femininity regained. In looking over my body, now with the silicone breasts affixed firmly, I began once again to feel what it was like to be female. The constant weight of the artificial breasts was a factor surely. The butt plug, which a few months ago was a mere afterthought was now an essential part of the program; I felt its presence at every moment, and waves of pleasure shot through me whenever I moved. My butt plug became my constant inanimate lover, always pleasuring me in new ways.
I spent the rest of the day resting and relaxing, applying extensions to my nails, depilating my body, listening to music and reading.
But early in the morning on the following day, I was awakened by a call from Mark. He literally had just returned from visiting his elderly parents in Las Vegas, having taken the red eye through Chicago. It was good to hear his once familiar voice (as I regained my own), as I squirmed in the sheets, reorienting myself to my again feminine life.
"Laura darling, I can't wait to see you. It's been such a long time" Mark was speaking loudly.
"Yes, Mark, we should really get back together soon. What about lunch on Thursday?"
"I was thinking that I'd like to drop by today, if possible; there is something I want to discuss with you."
I could not imagine what mysterious thing he had on his mind.
"Can you give me an idea of the subject matter?" I asked.
"Nothing bad my dear Laura, I assure you. But I do need to see you in private and I'm to impatient to wait until Thursday."
"Okay then." I answered.
But when we said our good-byes and hung up, it suddenly occurred to me that he might be set on asking me to marry him! I wasn't sure of course, but there was something about his resolute attitude that gave me pause. Perhaps it was all that joking over the summer. It must have sparked some thoughts in his mind. On the other hand, how could he even be thinking along those lines; we have not been intimate at all. It's nearly 1990, and virtually every married couple in America had intercourse beforehand. I resolved simply to say "No!" if he ever asked.
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