This is a work of FICTION for ADULTS only. Do NOT read this if you are under 18 or if you are not an adult according to the laws of your state or country. Do NOT read this if you are offended by fantasies involving sexually explicit material.

Comments welcome to bethjac@hotmail.com

A series of stories with TG themes, dedicated to women, and to men who like women, and especially those who like to be women (which includes me!)

 

Q is for Queen ........ aka 'I'm a woman, W-O-M-A-N.'

by Bethany Jacques

 

As I belted out the final chorus of 'Summertime', I felt the heel on my right shoe buckle. Of course, being a professional, I carried on to the end. Never let the punters down, the show must go on and all that. At the end I curtsied, I smiled, I blew kisses, it was actually a pretty good audience. I'd enjoyed the show too, the three Madonna numbers had gone well and the dancers in the 'Material Girl' spot - OK, just three of them, local guys from the Dramatic Society brought in to dress things up a bit - had done well. I was sure one of them had been a bit too keen, I got the distinct impression on of the six hands had gone up the slit in my skirt just a little further than was necessary for the proper artistic effect.

The Shirley Temple songs, well, I'm never too sure how good I look in a blue gingham dress and short socks. Glam I can do, very well. But sweet and twee, I'm not so sure. I never really enjoyed it but I know some of the punters got a kick out of it. Anyway just after I came off I managed to hobble to my dressing room and change my shoes for the expected onslaught of fans.

Dressing room? Well, an ante-room off the entrance lobby of the hall, just past the ladies' loos. Actually compared with some I'd known it wasn't bad at all. And the hall had been better than I'd seen of late. The Celebration Hall, Cannock, I can recommend it to any self-respecting drag queen. Nice crowd of people. You can tell an audience for my sort of act by the number of women there and Cannock had provided quite a few. I poured a quick vodka in the dressing room, just a small one with quite a bit of tonic, adds to the effect.

Anyway I sat down and turned towards the door, checking my dress, quick look at the make-up in the mirror and touch up my lipstick, a little more blusher. And ready. I waited. I'd asked the stage manager to give me five minutes to sort myself, true to his word there was a quiet tap-tap-tap on the door almost exactly on cue.

"Come in" I called, quietly.

The door opened. The stage manager, a rather exalted title for the guy who sorted the chairs and tables in the hall and handled the curtains, thrust his head round the corner.

"Ready mate? There's about four or five out here. Ready?"

For a moment I couldn't remember his name, then it came to me. James. And he'd been emphatic about that, James and not Jim. And he had done a good job, give him that. The little stage in the hall had been really well set up, nice lighting, the sound had been of a quality I'd not seen or indeed heard for a while. He'd called me mate, I don't think the Celebration Hall had played host - or should that be hostess - to many female impersonators. He'd been really flustered when Martin had gone into the dressing room and Marie - Queen Marie, that is, in the long red gown I almost always wore for my opening set - had come out.

I'd played on it a bit, of course. I mean, in that outfit I knew I looked hot. Any drag queen has her own favourite colour, well I have two. I look good in the right sort of blue but I can look stunning in red, the brighter the better.

So I'd strolled out of the dressing room and walked towards James, smiling and wiggling my arse, thrusting my long legs through the split in my dress as I moved. He'd just stood there open-mouthed. And as I got closer, as he got the whole picture, dress and legs and boobs, carefully made up face and big hair, he'd visibly whitened. For once - and I don't usually do it, I usually stay in role when I'm dressed - I dropped into Martin's voice.

"Ready James?"

That had really confused him, I don't think he's too bright really. But, like I said, he'd done his job well. Decent services on stage, a nearly full house, I'd really launched into 'Summertime' at the end of my set. And after what I myself judged as a good performance I was ready for the fans. Four or five? Well, better than one or two except that I got the nutter first. There's always one.

"Marie, great show, I saw you in Cinderella in Bradford a few years ago. I've been a big fan ever since".

The slightly wild look in his eyes told me. Nutter. It wasn't the act he'd come to see, and certainly it wasn't 'Martin'. It was 'Marie Queen' the woman. The over-the-top woman sitting there in front of him wearing too much mascara and with enormous gold-effect pendant earrings. But this man wasn't seeing the impersonator he knew was in front of him, he really was seeing a woman. OK, a nutter, but still a fan. He might still buy a CD from the young local lads I'd got selling in the foyer so he needed to be nurtured.

"Hello, so nice to see you. And thanks, I really enjoyed that role and I'm so glad you appreciated it."

And, to keep him sweet, I smiled. I held out my jewelled decorated right hand. He didn't shake it, he held it and he kissed it! Actually very gently but it still surprised me. I shuffled a little in my seat, crossing my legs so he'd have a good view of my thighs as we sat there. He enjoyed that! Although most of the time, for all sorts of practical reasons, I wear a long dress or a gown for most of my sets, I do realise I have good-looking legs. And for my final three songs, a bit of a medley rather than an actual impersonation of a particular artiste, I've always thought that a tight blue mini-dress sent the audience away with good memories of Marie Queen.

I chatted with that first guy for a couple of minutes more until I decided he'd had enough. I asked him if he wanted a signed photo and he said yes. I thought I knew which one he'd pick but I was wrong, he went for the one in the blue mini-dress, the one I was wearing at the time. I wrote 'For Harry, with love, Marie Q' and a couple of X marks. He liked that, he also liked the hand on his bum and the brief kiss I planted on his cheek as he was turning towards the door. Keep the punters happy, the golden rule, he might feel good enough to buy something at the merchandising table on the way out.

The next two fans were just fans, or at least local guys who had come along to the Hall when they'd seen there was a show on. One of them did actually comment on how 'good' in the sense of 'realistic' I looked on the posters advertising the show. I asked which one, I knew there were two different ones, and he told me it was the one showing me in that same blue dress.

After that I got a couple, husband and wife, which isn't all that rare really if you think about it. While some men might go along to a show like that for the vicarious thrill in seeing a man dressed up as a woman, lots of guys either couldn't or wouldn't want to go on their own or even with mates. The couple introduced themselves, or rather he did, as 'Keith and this is my wife Sarah'. I sat them down and took a brief sip from my vodka, and smiled, about to go into my spiel about 'nice to see you and I hope you enjoyed the show' and so on. But Keith cut me short.

"We saw you, Marie, several years ago in a summer season at Blackpool. With Jim Kennery. The comic."

I didn't need them to tell me that, I'd known Jim well before he tragically died a couple of years after that show. He was really more than just a comic, he'd have made a good character actor if he'd had the breaks.

"It was after that show, Marie, it was our first holiday together and I'd taken Sarah and we really did laugh so much, you and Jim were so funny together. Like when you did that sketch with you in the French maid's outfit and him as the master of the house and he kept getting in the way of your duster..."

Keith trailed off in laughter, Sarah was giggling too. And I was smiling, almost laughing too. I'd actually kissed Jim once after a show. He'd asked me about being a guy in girl's clothes and did I ever go out like that. And when I'd told him I sometimes did, not often, he'd wanted to know what I'd do if ever I got chatted up. I told him it had happened a couple of times and ended up kissing him to show I could do so convincingly as a woman. OK so I only ever did that once, that season anyway, but it made me smile thinking about it.

"...and after we'd stopped laughing Keith's arms were round me, and we hugged, and he proposed. And we're still together after all these years."

It wasn't many years ago really, and after they'd shown me their photos from Keith's wallet and told me how old their eldest son was, I realised he might well have been conceived on that holiday. He seemed the right age. They did say they'd enjoyed the show and I showed Sarah the 'diamonds' I used for the Material Girl song. We both agreed they looked even better than the ones on the original video though I've no doubt most of hers on that shoot were fake, just like mine.

I ended up signing two photos for them, both of me in the red dress I'd opened with, and shook their hands gently as they left. Maybe that Blackpool season had been the pinnacle of my career, certainly it had been the best paid. I'd been on the same money as Jim and he was quite a big star at that time. As they left I reflected on the years in-between, they'd been good for quite a long time. Summer seasons, pantomimes, it was only recently they'd begun to dry up. What with all the new acts around, and the Internet and the up-and-coming 'girls' on the scene, there was beginning to be not so much work for drag queens like me. Not in the big time at least, I knew I could keep on working the clubs and halls for a few years yet.

I'd never really had the ambition to go for the big time, not like acts such as Ru or Danni. I'd once had an enquiry from the Palladium, that was as good as it got although that came to nothing. But the income was steady specially with the merchandising I'd built up, the two CDs I'd recorded (both on a minor label). And the calendars I still did every year, when I did get a panto they sold well. I'd even seen one on a garage wall in Middlesborough, in June it was, open at October's picture which thrilled me. Because that October photo was one of the best I'd ever had done, me in a white boob-tube and mini-skirt and showing cleavage for all I was worth. Untouched too, the picture that is, the boobs were all mine - or at least my breast-forms.

I looked down. I smiled a little. That blue dress was almost as good as that boob-tube had been, I could still create a very attractive figure even then. I caught my reflection again and, oddly, another memory flashed into my mind. Of me in a different blue dress somewhere down in the south-west. I'd decided to go home after the gig en-femme and had even dropped into a pub for a quick drink. I remembered the guy who had chatted me up and his delight when he thought he'd pulled. I'd been a bit down at the time and the attention and the excitement of snogging him had cheered me up no end. Pity I had to leave him in the lurch before he found out he'd been kissing a man in a dress. He'd been nice but almost certainly straight as a die.

There was a knock on the door again. The last one, I thought, James had said 'four or five' and this was the fifth. I was beginning to get a little tired, I'd been up since six and had driven up from Colchester before the show. But, fans are what made me and I had a duty to do my bit. I forced a smile and opened the door.

The last fan was - a little different. He had a suit on for a start. I invited him in and went to sit facing him, not so much trying to keep awake but really just a little jaded. I shrugged it off.

"Hello there, good of you to come" I said maybe just a little too cheerily.

"It's good of you to see me - er Martin" he said.

Sometimes that happened. He wasn't sure. At least, unlike the first fan that night, he knew damn well he was in the presence of a female impersonator but he wanted me to feel comfortable too. Not knowing how far to go, since I wasn't on stage at the time being 'Marie Queen'.

"You can call me Marie, if you like" I said in a rather off-hand way. "After all, I look more like a Marie than a Martin, at least I hope I do or I'm out of a job!"

I rarely joked with fans about the subterfuge involved in my act, it surprised me a little that I did just then.

"Oh you certainly do. As Marie, I mean, you look just gorgeous!"

"Why thank you, that's so kind" I said, smiling widely.

He seemed to have something of a grip on how to play this, so many men really can't deal with cross-dressed men whether they be transvestites or drag queens or even genuine transsexuals. But this guy seemed on the ball. He'd just called me 'gorgeous' but 'as Marie', in other words I was doing the job well, doing a good-quality impersonation.

"No, I mean it. To be honest I wasn't too fond of the Shirley Temple bit of your act but the segments before and after, really you looked stunning. And I love you in that dress, you look so convincing."

Now that floored me. Not that I can't look convincing or at least I hoped I still could, but the make-up a drag queen has to use isn't intended to convince. It's supposed to look good, and attractive, and to over-emphasise female characteristics such as breasts and eyelashes and lips and hair and so on. Some DQs go way over the top, the one time I'd worked with Danni in a revue she'd had a wig about 12 inches tall on top of her head and way, way too much make up.

But I really liked what I was hearing. As we chatted he revealed that he'd actually seen my show a few times in the previous couple of months, whenever it came to a venue in his area, and that he was a big fan. It turned out he'd had one of my CDs for a while and just bought the other before the show, though in fact he didn't have my calendar or any of my T-shirts. Actually he was maybe a little old for T-shirts anyway. He struck me as more the professional type, the suit seemed quite expensive. And he let slip that when I was due at a club just outside Tamworth the next day, he'd got tickets already. I glanced at the flier pinned on the wall just above his head. Caunston Hall, yes, I'd done that about three years earlier, I thought. Tamworth, yes.

As he left, after a chat which had gone quite a few minutes longer than usual, I didn't kiss him. It just didn't seem the thing to do. But I did squeeze his hand more than shake it. Then I realised I hadn't offered him an autographed photo. He asked me to autograph the CD he'd bought instead though.

"Can you sign the back please, Marie? That really is a beautiful photo".

I looked at the back to remind myself. Actually he was right, I remembered the photo session. Me in something resembling 'secretary' mode in a white blouse and black skirt with a rather different hair style, same blonde colour though, the colour I think suits me best. I remembered what the photographer had said when he'd shown me the results on the screen.

"That one, Martin. I think that one on the back, it is very different from the glamorous red-dress picture we're picking for the front. Really very female, Martin, more of a good quality tranny picture than a drag queen."

Some drag queens refuse to accept the label 'transvestite' but not me. I knew in all honesty I'd be somewhere in-between. If I wasn't doing it for a living I know I'd have been cross-dressing, hiding it from a wife maybe if I'd gone down the 'job-at-the-bank-and-wife-and-two-kids' route. And he was right. I've always liked the photos of me where I do look female more than the showy DQ pictures. Hell, I'd even gone out as a woman, rather than in drag, several times, just to enjoy the experience. I'd always been careful though - apart from that one time in Exeter.

So I signed the CD and then the guy said something interesting.

"You should do a video, Marie."

"A video" I replied, parrot-fashion sounding rather stupid.

"Yes. I'm sure some of your fans would like that."

I didn't tell him why I hadn't. I relied on live performance and the memories of those who came to see me. And if you've got the video of a performance, why go to see it again? I needed repeat visits and I'd always had the impression, misguided maybe but I'd stuck with it, that making a video would shrink my live audiences. OK, old-fashioned maybe but there you are.

"Well, if you do, I know a company who might help you out. I - er - used to work with them. Do you want me to give you their number?"

"Yes, thank you."

I didn't want to offend him. He took a card out from his wallet and wrote a phone number on the back of one of them. As he handed it over, he smiled a little.

"Ask for Jim Garner, tell him Paul Stisson recommended him to you."

"Paul -"

"Stisson. S-T-I-S-S-O-N. I know, it's an odd name but I'm stuck with it. Anyway, I should go, I've kept you long enough."

And then, for the first time in a long time, something happened I wasn't expecting. HE kissed ME! Just briefly, the standard sort of goodbye kiss on the cheek. Well, nearly, his lips stayed in contact with my cheek just a little too long. And when he moved away, just as he turned towards the door, I could see that he was actually blushing. His face wasn't beetroot-coloured but it was quite red.

He was embarrassed, but I could tell he'd really wanted to do that. If he hadn't straight away opened the door and rather dashed out I might have blushed too. I stared after his retreating figure as he walked quickly down the corridor and turned left towards the outside door. James was probably there, to let him out, everyone else was gone. He appeared from round the same corner.

"OK mate, that was the last one. How long? About ten minutes? Fifteen?"

"Sure" I said, this time still in my 'Marie' voice. "Hang on a moment."

And I surprised him, I knew it would be OK since there were probably only him and me left in the building. I took two steps towards him, suddenly feeling very feminine, and went into the Ladies' loo. I saw his face. He definitely was surprised.

After that I did get out in just over twenty minutes, most of my make-up cleaned off, I'd finish in the shower back at the lodging house. And Marie packed up in my red case. I checked the CD-sales desk, the young lads who had been selling had gone but James had assured me they could be trusted. Nine CDs sold. The remainder were there, bundled, cash in the tin and ten pounds short, they'd taken the fiver each I'd promised. I slid the remaining 'merchandise' into the smaller case and strolled out into the hall car park. James locked up behind me.

"Went well tonight, I thought" he remarked.

"Yes it did" I said.

Usually I'm quite chatty after a gig, despite being weary. But not this time. The nutter had disturbed me a little, that first fan, and that kiss had too from the last one. I drove to my lodgings and watched just a few minutes of late-night TV with the landlady and her husband, then announced I was off up to my room.

"My friend Vera rang just before you came in, Martin. She was there tonight, she said it was a really good show."

"Well, thank her for me will you, Mrs Grace?" I said. And went up to my room.

The next day I slept in until after ten. I appreciated the luxury of being able to do that since the next gig wasn't too far away.

"Morning Mr King".

I remembered Mrs Watkins from staying with her about six months earlier when I'd had a run - two nights in a row would you believe, and both nearly sold out - in Wolverhampton. Always cheerful, nothing seemed to get her down. I really tucked into the full-English breakfast, one of the benefits of never having to watch my figure. Nervous energy, somebody had once said, that I could burn anything off because I used nervous energy being on the go all the time. After that I drove through a couple of country roads up to the M42 to avoid the dreaded M6 and arrived in Tamworth in the early afternoon.

The gig was outside the town in a place called Caunston, in a converted pub which had been turned into some sort of supper club. So I was adapting the act for a cabaret rather than just the stage show. I liked that. Being able to interact with the audience, play up the gender confusion aspect of my act. After getting in touch with the guy with the keys and arranging to get in to do a sound check and start changing at about six, I realised I had a few hours to spare so I drove into town.

I parked and looked round. Just like any other town centre really, they'd started becoming so similar about a decade ago. Same stores, same designs, same street signs. Not many local trades-people any more. Even the town hall looked like all the other late seventies town hall, so did the library next door.

The library. Something clicked in my head. Stisson. I'd heard the name before. An unusual name, why was it sticking in my mind? I went into the library and got myself access to one of the computers round the perimeter of the bookshelves. Once, in a library in King's Lynn I think, I'd actually found a copy of one of my CDs on the shelves! So I'd got some royalties from whichever local authority that was, but what really got me was that it had been catalogued under 'female, vocal, solo'. I never actually looked for it again anywhere, I think that was maybe a one-off.

I Googled 'Stisson Paul' and it came up with several thousand responses. The first page didn't look very hopeful so I re-did it with 'video' and got a few hundred. And the outline for the second on the list told me what I wanted to know. Or reminded me, rather, I'd seen the stuff in the press about a year earlier. I clicked on the link and got an article from the Telegraph, and a couple of photos. One was of the guy himself, Paul Stisson, and the other was of his wife. Or ex-wife really. Then I remembered what all the fuss had been about.

He'd had to sell his company, some hostile take-over whatever that meant. He'd been forced off the board and then right out by some Americans who'd bought the whole lot. PSI Communications, maybe the 'PS' was for Paul Stisson. But it had hit the headlines because he'd been paid a big ex-gratia sum out of court and the actual signing was done a few days after his divorce got finalised. His ex-wife had sued for a share of the sum and he'd maintained, or at least his lawyers had, that she wasn't entitled to it. They'd said she'd been treated fairly, that she'd got her fair share of his capital at the time of the divorce.

It ended up being settled out of court as well when the lawyers had negotiated a settlement of a quarter of the big payment he'd received for the company. The brunt of the article had been that she'd been very fortunate, specially since it was she who had done the dirty on him by having a torrid affair with some other guy about half his age.

I rapidly read the last bit of the article, then followed another Link and discovered that he'd sold Caunston Hall quite quickly after the divorce but he still lived locally. He'd kept on a big house on the edge of what had been his estate and walled it off as a smaller, self-contained residence. So, he'd sold off Caunston Hall? That explained the expensive suit and the very proper, polite manner. That and the money he'd been forced to accept for the PSI company, that is. He was really an old fashioned country gentleman now in slightly estranged circumstances. Comparatively speaking, that is.

The polite quiet coughing behind me reminded me that I was hogging one of the machines. I closed down the bit I'd been surfing and smiled weakly at the anaemically thin, baby librarian who had been behind me, and left. It had started raining just a little so I hied me to a burger bar and had a bit of a meal. Mrs Watkins's breakfast will nearly get you through the whole day but not quite. And sitting there eating meant that I didn't have to just walk round a strange town in the rain. Anyway, I got to the Hall just before six after one small detour.

Though the town centre did seem to be entirely McDonalds and Boots and Woolworth's and Top Shop and all chains, my attention got grabbed as I passed one shop quite close to where I'd parked. I suppose in the past it might have been called a draper's, ladies clothes and fabrics and so on. Well, it had gone a little way down the road of trying to emulate Dotty P's or something similar but its window display was still of the old style. And there, next to a mannequin in a long evening gown which I knew damn well wouldn't suit me, and another in gorgeously sexy gold lurex mini-dress which I'd have loved to try on, was a 'business-suit'. It wasn't the suit that caught my attention though, the model was poised with jacket over shoulder and was wearing a lovely blouse.

It reminded me straight away of the picture I'd signed for Paul Stisson the previous evening. Quite large yet delicate gold buttons down the front, long-sleeved, a tailored look. I knew I'd mislaid the original from the photo, probably left it in a dressing room somewhere. But the photo had been a good one. The whole outfit had indeed given me a very feminine appearance. I went into the shop and found it in my size, and bought it.

The assistant had looked hesitant. She was probably thinking I was buying it for a wife or maybe a girlfriend and maybe wondering if that meant she'd have to deal with a return in a few days time. She looked shocked when I told her I didn't want to try it on there and then, I knew the size would be OK. I glanced up to her left. She followed my gaze towards the flier pinned on the wall just near the door, the one advertising 'Marie Queen' at the Caunston Hall that night. Then she looked at me.

"Is that you?" I think she'd actually seen some sort of resemblance between the glamorous diva on the flier and the man standing in front of her. That, added to the fact that I'd revealed the blouse was for me.

"Yes" was all I said, handing over my credit card. She just swiped it and waited while it processed, then looked at the card while I did my PIN.

"Mr M King" she read.

"Martin King, as in Marie Queen" I replied.

"Oh, right."

And the way she said it convinced me that firstly she hadn't intended going to the show tonight and I'd not impressed her anywhere near enough to get her to change her mind. And secondly that she'd never before heard of either Martin King or Marie Queen.

At five to six I was at the venue, meeting yet another so-called Stage Manager and again recruiting a group of locals, three girls this time, to deal with the CDs and T-shirts. Those T-shirts had nearly all gone, thankfully. I didn't like the way the designer had put it together, at the time I'd been down with the flu and hadn't had the chance to veto the final version. The idea was good, me in full songstress mode against the background of an ocean liner. The intended pun on my stage name didn't really work if you looked very closely at the background image and saw that it wasn't even the Queen Mary, it was the Aurora.

The Stage Manager was OK even though he didn't have an actual stage to prepare. But I got things sorted, my small table at the rear of my performance area, with some of my make-up on it and a decanter of what looked like scotch and was really just coloured water. Both there for effect, the latter so I could walk round the floor with a glass in my hand singing 'One for the road' in something close-ish to a Billie Holliday style, and the makeup because occasionally I liked to add a little humour to the proceedings by touching up my lipstick on-stage and over-doing the actions involved.

Though I say it myself that show went even better than the one in Cannock, and I'd thought the previous night had gone well. There was a bigger crowd, it may even have been a sell-out, and I chose well in picking people, all guys except one, for the audience interactions which are almost de rigueur in that sort of setting. The best one was the last, the one I did in the blue dress while doing a Dolly Parton song. The guy I'd picked on was really up for it, as I sidled up to him and crooned in his ear while stroking his almost-bald head, he was grinning and looking round. He really did deserve the embarrassing peck on the cheek at the end of the song.

I'd noticed Paul Stisson earlier. He seemed to know quite a few of the people there, and sat with a group of four others though I imagined he hadn't actually come to the show with them. They were two married couples, almost certainly, and just for a moment I'd thought of choosing him to sing one of my songs to. But I didn't, somehow it seemed not to be the right thing to do.

But after the show, after my 'Summertime' encore-closer, I curtsied and took my applause and, as is the fashion these days, lifted my arms to applaud my audience as I walked through them towards the long bar which ran down one side of the hall. As I did so, there at my side was Paul Stisson himself.

"Hello again" I said, smiling. No kiss, though, I was still a little worried about the exact manner in which we'd parted company the previous night.

"Hello Marie. Great show, really great. Even better than last night. Can I buy you a drink?"

He seemed more in control. Maybe because he was on familiar turf, being in Caunston and all that, as I said his manner in Cannock had disturbed me.

"Thank you" I replied, keeping up the smile. "Vodka and tonic, please. Mr Stisson, isn't it, I remember the odd-ish name."

"Please. Paul." The instruction to call him by his first name was only natural really. I did my usual trick for the benefit of any lewd punters there, lifted my bum onto the stool by the bar and crossed my legs to show a fair amount of thigh and maybe my stocking tops. Yes, some men are weirdoes but they still might buy CDs and T-shirts and indeed they had paid to come and see me.

"Marie, I know you'll have fans to see and so on. I just needed to mention, after what I said last night. About the video."

"Yes, I remember. John Garner, you said, I've still got his number." I remembered the surname from an old western series on TV.

"Jim Garner. But I rang the video company this morning, just to check in with him. I didn't know, he's left the firm so they might not be the ones to use, if you thought of going ahead, that is."

I sipped my vodka and peered over the edge of my glass at Paul. He was persistent, I'll give him that. Whether he was just a big fan or whether this might end up in some sort of stalker situation I didn't know. I'd only ever come across that situation once before, not with me but with my friend Jeannine. She's a regular girl, a proper one I mean, a 'GG' as they say, we'd done a bit of an act together doing 'Sisters' as my last song and her first. She'd had a stalker, a guy who kept appearing at her gigs and sending flowers and rather crude letters. Eventually she'd actually got the police involved and he'd been dealt with but she'd gone through quite a bit of heartache on the way. It's different, though for a GG.

But Paul didn't seem like the stalker type. I slid off my stool carefully when I saw the SM coming over towards me, clearly there was something of a queue backstage waiting to get things signed and have a word. It was just as I was going that one of the couples who had been with Paul trapped me briefly.

"We enjoyed the show, Marie" said the wife, I assume, staring at my cleavage! "That Dolly Parton song was just great, you really did do the voice so well."

"And the tits!" muttered her husband, with a wide lascivious grin across his face. In other circumstance I might have challenged him there and then, the tone of his comment deserved some sort of put down. But I wanted to get backstage so I just turned briefly to Paul.

I thanked him for the drink, but didn't do any sort of kiss or hand-squeezing. It's a fine line I have to tread taking on the role of a woman sometimes. The kiss or squeeze or even fondle is OK in public as part of the act, and of course it's all right to do that sort of thing in private. I have to be careful though, in semi-public if you see what I mean. Paul had bought a drink for a drag performer and that was acceptable because it was in public and it was a bit of a thank you for the performance.

Yet it wouldn't have done to be in any way intimate there and then at the bar. I'd walked that tightrope for years and I knew just how far it would be appropriate to go in almost any situation. Even with at guy in Exeter I'd been in control. I'd gone for a few drinks in the bar and a bit of flirting and then some necking and heavy-duty fondling up against the wall behind the pub but I'd not gone too far. Though I'd been feeling pretty low before the groping it had done me a power of good and I'd known exactly how far to push him.

I walked the usual sexy walk, in my high heels, behind the SM and back towards my dressing room. I have to say it was really a bit large and to some extent opulent really, not quite what I was used to in village halls and small theatres and Centenary Centres and so on. I skipped in front of the SM and closed the door behind me, having said I'd be ready in just a couple of minutes. And as soon as I had shut the door and turned round, well, the surprise I'd not been expecting greeted me. There just beside the mirror, and they'd not been there earlier, they must have arrived during the performance, was a large bunch of roses. Red roses. In my whole career that had never happened before, it really did take my breath away for a moment.

There was a card. I think I knew where they'd come from - and I was right. I slid it out, noticing in fact that the colour of the roses almost exactly matched my long fingernails. I read it out, aloud for some reason but quietly.

'For Marie, good luck. Paul XXX.' It really did throw me. I poured a small glass of water and sat down - I'd had my post-gig vodka already and I was going to be driving back to my small hotel later. Paul Stisson had sent me roses. Wow!

I got interrupted just then by the usual triple-tap on the door. Why do all SMs tap three times?

"Hello" I called, basically relieved not to have to think about the roses. The SM came in and asked if I was ready. I asked how many were outside and got the same answer as the previous night - 'four or five'. So I set to it, the usual brief conversations, people saying nice things about my act and my singing and my dresses and so on. One woman asked how I managed in such high heels. I didn't actually say I'd been wearing then on and off since I was seven, just replied that I'd got used to them by now. And no nutters. Not a one. That was a relief.

After the interviews the three girls came in with my merchandising stuff. Eleven CDs and four T-shirts, amazingly. So I gave them a fiver each again since they'd done a job for me in packing everything together in my bag. I turned and picked up the bouquet. They really were lovely roses and I took a moment to savour their fragrance. I turned to move towards the door in order to lock it before starting to get changed. There was a double-tap at the door just as I put my hand on the key. I opened it.

"Hello again, I just wanted one more word. I won't keep you, I know you have to change and so on." It was Paul Stisson. I wanted to hug him, to kiss him even. I just stood there with the big bouquet in my arms and felt a tear begin to roll down my cheek.

"Paul, thank you so much. Nobody has ever given me such a beautiful bouquet ever before, they are just lovely."

I was gushing, and I really was wondering if I was going to cry. But I couldn't kiss him. We weren't in private, the SM and one of the three girls were just down the corridor. I daren't cross the line even though I was so grateful to Paul for appreciating my femininity. And I was puzzled. OK so I had that blue dress on and high heels and very long nails and my gold jewellery and so on. The body was definitely female, I know I always do an extremely good job on decorating and wrapping up my figure. But the face and the make-up were those of a typically over-the-top DQ. OK so I felt female at that moment though I knew very well I didn't really look it.

I just reached out, almost certainly out of the sight of the two on-lookers, and squeezed his hand and tried not to cry. Very luckily he didn't stay long, he never even came into the dressing room. If he had I'd probably have flung my arms round his neck for the first time in a long time. With a man I mean.

But he realised something of my plight, he maybe saw a tear in the corner of my eye. Maybe. "It's just that, if Jim Garner can't help out with the video maybe I could. I'm not involved with that company any more but it might be nice to do something like that myself. If you'd like, that is. I've not done it hands-on for years, always had people to do it for me. Or maybe you don't like the idea."

He really was being kind. I didn't want to say no.

"All right Marie. Maybe I'm being pushy. But on your flier about the tour the date for tomorrow is crossed off. With a thick black pen."

I'd had to do them all myself, I'd been due in Barrow the next night but they'd had a small fire in the venue the previous weekend and had to cancel all their gigs for a couple of weeks. I didn't need to tell Mr Stisson that, though.

"Yes, there was a cancellation. So I get a night off."

"I see. Well, where are you staying?"

"At the Armada Hotel" I replied, too quickly and without thinking. Was this the stalker-thing coming up again?

"Well, if you don't mind - er - Martin - how about we meet up tomorrow? Late in the morning maybe, or the afternoon, have a chat about the video. It would be fun to shoot again, that's how I started out."

Again, he was persistent. But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all, so I agreed. We settled on two-o-clock in the pub opposite the Armada. After he left the SM peered towards me inquiringly. I knew he wanted me out sharp-ish.

"OK. Fifteen minutes."

So it took me twenty again but I was relieved to get out of there in the end. The show was good and so were the sales, I'd definitely come back there again if I got invited. But I wondered about Paul Stisson. I could see his point about making a video really, and I supposed that after his divorce and losing his company the thought of getting back into something like video production might have been quite appealing to him. Maybe the dollar signs were rolling in front of his eyes, use this drag queen as a tester and then move onto proper videos like he had when he'd first set up PSI. It had, I remembered from my library research, started out like that, small videos of minor pop stars, before expanding into all sorts of multimedia at the start of the nineties.

I smiled a little to myself at the 'er- Martin' when he'd said my name. I just wondered if he'd recognise me in the pub the next day. He probably would, that sales assistant in the shop where I'd bought the blouse had seen the similarity, I was sure.

I didn't think I'd sleep that night but I did, a tribute to the beds in the Armada hotel really. The breakfast wasn't up to Mrs Watkins's standard but it was more than acceptable. I went back up to my room and packed my two bags, the red and the blue, ready to move out. Two cases, one male and one female if you see what I mean. It would have been catastrophic, after all, to turn up at a gig with the case with all my male clothes in having left the other behind. Who'd want a drag queen with not a thing to wear? Hence the red and the blue.

I walked across to reception to settle my bill, then back to my room to get the cases. I recalled the 'er - Martin' comment again and smiled. I looked in the mirror, at Martin. Handsome enough really though not a great one with the ladies. I'd had my share though, never married but still managed to 'put myself about a bit' even in my youth. And then there had been Brenda only two months earlier, the landlady's mother would you believe. Forty-five going on twenty-five and dynamite in bed.

I picked up the red case. I paused. Thinking. And I changed my plan. And changed my life.

The boy at reception, well the young man, had commented when I'd paid that the room wouldn't be seen to yet because his sister who did all that sort of thing was in Birmingham for the day and wouldn't be back until nearly four. So I still had several hours of use of the room if I wanted it. I'd made some sort of non-committal comment at the time. But like I said, I'd been thinking. I went back to my room.

I left it at a quarter to two carrying the two cases, regretting that I had to leave my bouquet behind. I'd kept the card though, it was in my handbag. I managed to get out to the car park without going past reception itself and shoved the two cases in the boot. I left the car there and walked along to the street and towards the pub Paul had mentioned. I'd not checked the name before but when I saw the 'Green Forester' sign I knew I was in the right place. I pushed the door open and walked in, turning left towards the lounge bar. I could see Paul straight away sitting over by the window, with a small glass of something in front of him. Probably a scotch. He was reading the 'Financial Times'. I strolled towards him and stopped, waiting. He was engrossed.

"Good afternoon Paul" I said. Quietly and gently. He looked up. Just for a second I saw - what? Horror? Shock? Surprise? Then he relaxed. He controlled himself. I really had caught him totally off guard as I'd intended of course. I knew very well that if I'd rung him that morning and offered him a choice he'd have said 'Martin'. But I didn't have his number though I'm sure I'd have been able to contact him somehow. But I hadn't. And I wasn't Martin. I was Marie.

I read a story once where a T-girl did exactly what I'd just done to a man she rather fancied. When he saw her he just came out with 'Fuck me!' and she said 'All right then' and they did just that. The next couple of paragraphs were rather steamy and full of references to all sorts of body parts, male and female, some of which were actually involved in the scenario and some of which were just imagined and referred to even though they couldn't possibly have been there.

Paul's reaction, after that initial horror, was more measured. "Hello Marie" he said, cool as a cucumber as he stood up.

Old-fashioned and gentlemanly, I agree, but I liked it. I sat down next to him on the corner seat and crossed my legs. I know, it's corny but I loved to do it and to see his reaction. Again, maybe ten seconds after seeing me, he was in total control. He looked round towards the bar and lifted an eyebrow towards the young man at the bar who came straight over. He finished his scotch. "Another one please, Donald, and a vodka and tonic, is it, Marie?"

"Thank you" I said, smiling at Donald and appreciating the fact that while listening to Paul he'd been looking at me. We both stayed silent while the barman got our drinks. I sipped mine and Paul looked.

"Marie, you look great. Really great." That was what I wanted to hear. I mean I wouldn't have minded if he'd said 'gorgeous' or 'stunning' or 'beautiful' but I knew what he meant. 'Great' meant that I looked female. Convincing. And that's what I wanted. I'd been confident of course, having several times passed as a woman in different circumstances. Yet this was different somehow. This was with Paul, and I still hadn't properly decided what he was about. I sipped my vodka again and slid my other hand over Paul's on the small table in front of us.

"I didn't want to ask you or even tell you. Somehow I got the idea you'd quite like me to look - like this."

"Like it? Marie, I love it!"

He looked round. There were only four or five other people in the pub at that time but we had no doubts who was the centre of attention. The tight leather skirt and black stockings and 4" stilettos made sure of that and I was determined to flaunt my attractive legs as much as I could. I put my glass down and slid my other hand across my exposed thigh.

"I rather thought you might." I couldn't help grinning, aware that Paul was still staring somewhat. "It's your fault, you know, you reminded me what it's like to really look like a woman last night. That picture on the back of the CD cover. It reminded me of the good feeling when I'm being seen as a woman rather than as a female impersonator. So when I saw this blouse in that older draper's shop on the high street I just had to have it. And since you'd admired me wearing it on the picture I thought you might like to see the full effect - in real life as it were."

And after that rather long speech I sat up, not entirely unintentionally causing my bosoms to push forward a bit, really to try to emphasise my figure. In the wide belt I thought I looked really slim and what with that and the short leather skirt, well, I was enjoying myself. I sipped again at my vodka. And then I surprised myself.

I put my glass down and took Paul's hand in mine, just stroking it a little. "Paul, I'm still trying to work you out."

"Really Marie." He took a large sip of his scotch though he didn't make me release his hand.

"Do you like that?" I asked, looking down at our hands and then up at him through my long thickened lashes. OK so I was teasing him, flirting even just a little. But actually being properly en femme for the first time in a while was a very enjoyable experience.

"Actually, Marie, I know it's a bit weird but yes. I do. It's nice."

We chatted on about the video idea, and then about my tour and what I hoped to do next season maybe and possible panto and all that. I thought was maybe about twenty minutes, yet when I looked at my watch I realised it had been well over an hour.

"Paul, really, this has been so much fun. I'm sure you understand that now, for a woman like me just to be able to spend some time like this. I've enjoyed myself so much but I mustn't keep you to myself any longer."

He'd just realised the time too and was clearly set for a move too. "So, Marie, what's next? Didn't you say you've checked out already?"

"Yes I have. I'm due in Cambridge for the final date of the tour tomorrow night."

"So, hang on, if you've checked out of your hotel where were you going to change?"

"I thought I might drive over to Milton Keynes en femme. My sister has often said I can stay with them overnight any time on my travels."

"And if you turn up looking like you do?"

"She'll be surprised. She's seen the show of course a couple of times. But she's never seen me actually en femme as opposed to in drag. It's going to be interesting to see her reaction. And her husband's!"

"I bet! But you're right Marie, we should get going. I know for a fact there's a group comes in here late afternoon for a bit of a get-together and it may not be a good idea for them to find us here."

"You mean you don't want to be seen with me?" I teased, taking Paul's hand and swinging round to face him as we went out towards the pub car park.

"No, it's not that, it's just - oh hell."

"Paul, don't worry. I'm only pulling your leg a bit. I do understand. You're an important person in this community and you have to be careful who you associate with. Anyway my car's in the hotel car park over the road. Maybe we should say goodbye now, it really has been a different sort of day. Have you enjoyed yourself? Better than sitting in a pub with Martin discussing videos? We've not really settled that idea."

Paul was still holding my hand, rather tightly it seemed to me.

"Marie. Look, we haven't talked about it, have we? Maybe we should."

"Well we can't here in the car park, can we?"

He was STILL holding my hand. He looked me in the eyes. "Marie. I don't want you to leave."

It was in the circumstances a bold statement. One which said quite a lot about him. He'd been sitting in the pub with a man dressed as a woman for almost two hours, and didn't want him to leave. Her. The trouble was that I didn't want to leave either but I couldn't really come up with a good excuse not to. I was desperately trying to think of one as we approached what I assumed to be Paul's car, parked on its own near the road, when another man got out of the car and came over towards us. Not as tall as Paul, really rather a rural-looking man, you know the type, ruddy complexion, the look of someone who'd spent a lot of his time in the open air. A farmer for example, or a farm hand.

Paul smiled at him and then turned to me. "Marie, this is George. He's my general factotum really, handyman back at the Grange, decorator, and recently my driver."

I smiled at the newcomer and held out a hand to gently shake his. My own hand, slightly large for a woman really though small for a man, was engulfed by his, he held mine rather delicately as if he didn't want to crush it. He seemed a rather muscular men, probably he could have done.

"Good afternoon, Miss" he said.

"Hello George." He'd called me 'Miss'! Well, of course he would, wouldn't he.

"George is rather worried, Marie. He's been driving me round for six months. I'm afraid I had a bit of an argument with a speed camera and got myself banned."

"Bit of an argument, Paul? You were doing 140 on the motorway!"

"OK, OK. But the ban ran out two days ago, Marie, and George has rather enjoyed driving me around. Gets him away from Mildred."

George and Mildred! I tried not to laugh or even smile. I turned away from George, and from Paul just for a few moments to regain my self-control. I don't think either of them noticed, their attention had been attracted by a bright red Lotus slowly making its way along the road, the driver was clearly looking for signposts or something. Typical men, cars first and women second!

I turned back, Paul was looking at me and beginning to speak again. "Look, how about coming out to the Grange. Mildred can do us a bit of a snack and then you can decide on the best plan of action. It's just one stop up the M42, and you'd go that way towards Milton Keynes anyway."

Paul had come up with a plan, and one which enabled me to stay en femme for a little longer. I was getting such a thrill out of being a tranny rather than a DQ for a while, I had to agree with him. We ended up giving George the keys to my car and instructions about where it was and so on and he went off to drive it along to the Grange, whatever that was. Just for a moment, while we were sorting the keys, I had to think about what he'd find in there. The answer was that there was nothing overtly male visible, just a few maps and other things which were not gender-specific. Most of my male stuff was shut in the boot inside my blue case.

I clambered into Paul's vehicle, a big and rather splendid 4 x 4, and enjoyed being driven in some luxury up to the junction near the Services and then up the motorway. As he pulled off at the next junction I noticed we'd caught up with my old Astra which George was driving. We continued about 300 yards along that road and then Paul turned left through a gateway.

"Behold, the Grange" he said. I looked at the rather large house in front of us as he swung round to the front door, just behind my own car. "Well, what do you think? It's not very grand but it's home now."

It looked grand to me. Not as big as the large stately home I could see maybe a quarter of a mile further down the road but still a substantial residence. As we went in I met Mildred, George's wife. It turned out that I was right, George had started out as a farmer locally but decided to sell up and move into town for some sort of health reasons. And then he and Mildred had ended up working at Caunston House when Paul and Kathleen and his mother had been living there. Basically the demands of the two women had required five staff in all though when Paul had 'down-sized' and moved into the Grange, he'd just kept the two staff on. Kathleen was of course gone, and his mother had decided she wanted more of the London life she'd had in her youth and had bought an small apartment in Chelsea. Which left Paul, with Mildred and George.

Mildred really was almost as exactly as I'd imagined, rather rotund and jolly, she insisted on providing tea almost as soon as we'd arrived. She was friendliness personified, fussing over Paul who she just occasionally called 'Mister Paul' though clearly he was really on ordinary first-name terms with his staff. And she did, every time, call me 'Miss Marie' just like George did. I liked that! Having been properly en femme rather than in drag for several hours by then I was really enjoying the role more and more.

It was so lovely in the house, the 'Grange', oak panelling, period furniture and all, the log fire blazing, really no woman could have asked for more. Paul and I sat in the main lounge roasting ourselves and having our tea while Mildred prepared a 'proper meal' for us. Paul had said he didn't want me to go and to be honest, there and then, I still didn't want to. It was so warm and cosy, the house was so inviting.

Mildred gave me a bit of a guided tour of the main house, proudly showing me the decorating she and George had done in two of the bedrooms and going on about how they were going to do up their 'apartment'. It turned out the house ended up with seven bedrooms altogether after the re-design before Paul had moved in. Two were in Mildred and George's end, really they had a 'semi' rather than an apartment, shut off from the main house.

"It's a lot easier to keep up than the big House, Miss Marie. That had about sixty-three bedrooms, we never really were too sure exactly how many. And it was such a rabbit-warren, very difficult to keep up what with Mrs Kathleen and Paul's mother to cater for as well. George and I have it much easier now, and he's really been enjoying driving Mr Paul round while he's been banned. He's hoping still to be able to do some of that, gets him out from under my feet too."

Mildred could talk for England and she did. I got the whole family history going back about three generations as we toured round and ended up back in the main kitchen. I mainly listened, it was a new experience for me and I'd been hesitant about it when she'd suggested the tour while the men-folk looked at something to do with George's car. Being with a woman, I mean. As a woman. I'd had some doubts about it. With men I was OK. I was confident about not being read but I really hadn't had much experience of being 'Marie' in female company.

Almost none unless you count that landlady's mother who had got a kick out of being with me dressed up and then getting into my knickers. And that was different, I'd adopted the tranny-female role rather than the drag queen, that's what had turned her on. And when we'd started to get intimate, undressing each other and manipulating each other's breasts and lipstick-kissing and so on, I'd seen it as some sort of lesbian experience. But really even from before the moment she'd got my cock out I'd been a man in women's clothing.

Yet with Mildred, I was Marie. Friend or acquaintance of her boss. As we progressed I became much more comfortable with the role in female company until at the end, when we sat down together for a small sherry while the cooking was finished, we were chatting woman-to-woman across the kitchen table. It hadn't been my intention, honest, but we did eventually get onto the subject of Paul's love life. Mildred had just briefly mentioned having to get that first spare bedroom sorted several months earlier for a woman visitor so I'd asked her about it.

"She really was awful. Dorothy-something her name was. She was a gold-digger, George and I both saw it from the start. I think Mr Paul did too but he was a bit low at the time. It was about three months after the divorce got made final. She was very good-looking though, some sort of writer from London, I think maybe she was a friend of Mrs Kathleen. Only spent one night here though, Mr Paul got it right. He saw through her pretty quickly. George drove her to get the train very early the next morning. And the other one, well!"

"Go on, well what?"

Mildred was giggling, and took nearly a minute to calm down. Then she just said it. "Mrs Agatha Hortington-Smith." And she burst into laughter again.

"No!"

"Yes. True as I'm sitting here. Bloody awful name and really a bloody awful family if you'll excuse my French, Miss. Came one lunchtime clearly thinking she was going to have her way with Mr Paul and spend the night and all that. But when he took her out to dinner that evening her mother turned up. Seems she'd heard about her daughter's new beau, as it were, and wanted to see the lie of the land. Mr Paul was steaming when they got back here."

"What? With her mother?!"

"Oh no. It was bad enough though. Mr Paul was horrified, said he could see the cow turning into her mother before his eyes. Said he could see why her husband had kicked the bucket, probably to get away from the cow. He kept calling her a cow, and he was right. Anyway we put her in the blue room, your room that is, Miss, and Mr Paul probably locked his door that night. Not at all what she'd imagined. Very frosty at breakfast they were, anyway she rang her mother straight after and off they went when she got here. The mother, that is."

"So he's not been very lucky with women then, Mildred?"

"Not recently Miss. I mean, we all were happy at the start when Mrs Kathleen first came and they got married. She was nice to us and good for him and all that. But it was that young man from Birmingham, I think he was. He knew he was onto a good thing with her and when it all came out, well, nasty business. Cost Mr Paul a fair bit in the end what with lawyers and the like. But he argued her down when it came to settlement, since it was her fault having the affair and so on. I don't think Mr Paul so much as looked at another woman while they was married. Anyway, Miss, I've probably said too much. I'd better get on with the cooking. Should be ready in ten or fifteen minutes."

I strolled out of the kitchen door having worked out that I could get through the garden back to the main lounge area. Just looking round I felt more at ease than I had done in years. No gig tonight, and no rush tomorrow, I could still get to Claire's house for the night to give me a shorter drive the next day anyway. The sun was setting over the woods I could see in the distance. OK so there weren't birds singing but there was a brook babbling. It was really idyllic.

I had to be careful negotiating the steps up to the house in my heels but did OK without stumbling. Paul was standing with George looking out of the French windows from the lounge onto the patio. It was still warm and I noticed a small table on the patio with two place settings on it. They saw me and George said something to Paul before turning to go back in the house. Paul came across to greet me, extending a hand which I gladly took, and held on to.

"Paul, this is gorgeous here. Mildred said you kept most of the land when you sold the big house."

"Yes, only about thirty acres though. There's about five with the main house. I insisted they use it for social housing, you know the sort of thing, mainly flats so that youngsters from the area have somewhere to live. The developers weren't happy about that until they realised they had four acres for over-blown big houses to build and overprice."

"That's really good of you, maybe you could have got more without, you know, the conditions and so on."

"Well I'm not so sure. We got some grants from Brussels to help out. Basically, except for Kathleen, everybody wins."

I remembered what I'd read in the library earlier the previous day. Had that been so recent? Less than thirty-six hours really, it seemed like months. Mildred came through with the fruits of her labours and Paul and I sat on the patio enjoying her great cooking with a glass of white wine. We'd just finished the dessert, and Paul was going to pour another glass of wine for me, when something clicked. I stood up.

"Hang on a minute, Paul" I said, suddenly just a little perturbed. It had been something Mildred had said, I hadn't realised the significance until that moment. I turned and headed back through the house towards the kitchen. I'm afraid I interrupted Mildred and George just as he was wrapping his arms round her, and she was giggling again, not very seriously trying to counter her husband's advances.

"Oh my. Sorry Miss Marie" she gabbled on seeing me walk into the kitchen. I was probably looking a little angry at the time.

"That's OK. But Mildred, when we were talking, you said something about the blue room, and then you said 'your room'. Is that right?"

"Yes it is. Mr Paul said ...."

"Said what?" And I was certainly becoming angry, Paul hadn't asked me about anything like that.

"Miss Marie" George interrupted, to defend his wife. "Paul asked me to take your cases up to the blue room. That's all."

I spun expertly on one stiletto and hurried back through the house.

"Paul! Did you or did you not tell George and Mildred that I was staying the night?!"

"Oh shit!"

"You might well swear. Really Paul, you didn't ask me at all. I said I was going to drive over to Claire's, and surprise her. You remember?"

Paul looked quite contrite. Clearly I'd embarrassed him. "I didn't actually say that. All I said, Marie, was that you might be staying the night. This was before you mentioned Claire. I asked George to make sure the blue room is sorted, you know, sheets on the bed, so that I could ask you if it came to that. It means you have a choice. You can drive over to your sister's or, if you like, you can stay here. You'll be quite safe, I promise, I'm not an ogre."

So he hadn't actually assumed anything. He'd just made contingency plans and it had been me who jumped to conclusions. I might have stayed angry with him even, played up with mock anger to replace the genuine ire which was receding, but at that moment, just behind Paul outside the French windows, I saw a pair of pheasants. Just strolling across towards the lawn, the cock dressed in his glory, the dull brown hen. I just breathed in sharply.

Paul turned and followed my gaze. "They look happy."

"They do." And I nearly melted. Paul put an arm round my shoulder and hugged me gently and right there and then I nearly succumbed. I wanted to. It had been a long time since I'd been with a man, and this gorgeous, kind man who was stroking my upper arm seemed to be so desirable I really did begin to wonder if this was some sort of 'turning point'. Whatever our relationship was going to be, at that moment it was so different to anything I'd felt with any other man.

I turned my face up and towards his.

"Paul. If I did think about it, I might stay. Look, this is turning into something - serious. At least I think it is, I've never really felt like this before. I mean, I do, but I don't know about you?"

He just looked at me. For more than a few seconds our eyes met. His are brown, I'd not realised, almost the same colour as my father's. "This is new territory for me too, Marie. I'd never have thought .... , I mean, I'm not so sure about what this means but .... oh hell, I'm not saying this right."

"Yes you are. You're doing fine. And I've just realised. When you kissed me the other night, in - where was it - oh yes, in Cannock, I didn't understand why that kiss was different. And then yesterday after the show, I felt I needed to kiss you again, just to make contact, just to in some way show you how I was feeling. Not that I really understood it then, and I don't now."

I was blabbering too, neither of us seemed able to put whatever was going on into words.

"Paul. I've just realised. I haven't kissed you today."

He was still gazing into my eyes.

"Look, this is different. I'm not a drag queen right now, this isn't just me being with a fan. This is me really being a transvestite, and standing here with a gorgeous guy. So. What do you think?"

"I've never actually kissed a transvestite before."

"No time like the present." I moved right round to face him, shivering a little as his arm slipped round my waist, as my lips moved closer to his ....

And then his mobile phone rang. Not that I'm into fate and all that stuff, but just at that moment it occurred to me that this might be an omen. Maybe we'd both made a mistake, maybe I was presuming too much. And just maybe Paul would have recoiled if we'd gone ahead and he'd properly realised he was kissing a guy.

"Blast!" was his one-word response to the bring - bring from the phone in his pocket. I pulled back, he took it out and looked at the screen. "Marie, I should get this."

"That's OK" I said, somehow massively disappointed and immensely relieved at the same time. I had a breathing space, I had to think. I'd been on auto-pilot for several minutes and really had to resume control in some way. In my job, whether dragged up or just cross-dressed, a woman has to stay in control. All sorts of things could disturb her equilibrium, a snagged earring, a broken heel - or a man. I stood back to give him some privacy but I could hear some of what he was saying.

"Hello ..... Yes David .... yes ..... no, I won't be there ...... surely not, it was sorted ages ago, wasn't it ..... no, I definitely can't, I've told you ..... no, it's awkward right now, I've got someone with me ..... what..... all right then, ten minutes ..... what .... well tell him to keep his mouth shut in future. Yes, ten minutes. OK."

He looked annoyed. Well, upset anyway, something had clearly gone wrong somewhere.

"Marie, I'm sorry, I need to go out for about twenty minutes. There's a dinner at the golf club tonight and I'm sponsoring two of the prizes and there's a problem with the engraving. You remember Donald, the young man in the Forester this morning? Well that was his dad. He's worked out why I'm not going. Donald saw us this morning obviously and said something to him about me and my - er - girlfriend. Look, George will do you a coffee. And when I get back, well, you can decide then whether to push on to MK tonight. OK?"

"Paul, you have things to do. Go on, don't let me get in the way. Go, go, I'll get myself a coffee."

He grabbed his coat, turned to go, and then turned towards me again. He kissed me quite hard on the cheek. "That'll have to do for now, back inside half an hour. Tell George, I'll drive myself."

And he was gone. The romantic mood of five minutes earlier had evaporated. I really was thinking that the interruption might have been fortuitous, surely I'd have found it very difficult to just go if ....

I walked through the house to tell George where Paul had gone and to explain - as far as I knew - about the golf club and so on. "George, is Paul missing out on the dinner because I'm here. Is that why?"

"No miss, that's not why. He just couldn't go tonight. It's just about a year since Mrs Kathleen went, the dinner was the last time they went out together. Everyone knew what was going on except him it was so very awkward. He just couldn't face it."

That did it. That decided me. "George. Tell Mildred too, I'll be staying tonight. Did you say you'd taken my cases up to the blue room? Can you show me?"

It was Mildred in fact who showed me up to one of the rooms we'd looked into during the tour earlier. My two cases, the red and the blue, were standing at the foot of the bed.

"Thanks, I'll just get a few things unpacked."

"Right Miss, do you want me to help?"

I declined the offer, I knew I'd need one or two things from the blue case. But it was the red one really, I hung the dresses on the hanger in the large wooden wardrobe and looked at them. Yes, that one, I hadn't been sure I'd brought it. I'd got a new black dress in Harrods a couple of weeks earlier, not for a specific number or artiste but just because it was so gorgeous. And I'd bought it in a 10!

I spread my other clothes in the top drawer of the dresser and then assembled my make-up and jewellery and so on laid out on the actual top of the small dressing table in there. And I was delighted to see there was decent light and a decent mirror. I heard Paul's car returning, he'd been a lot less than half an hour. I rushed down the stairs as he came in the front door.

"All sorted?" I asked.

"Yes, daft engraver. He'd done the right names but on the wrong trophies. We just swapped the labels, that's all. Really someone else should have done that. Now, where were we?"

He'd reached out to grab my waist. "Wait, Paul. Tell me about this dinner. Why aren't you going? You said you're sponsoring two of the prizes. Shouldn't you be presenting them, isn't that what usually happens?"

"Well, maybe. But I'm not going. If you think I'm going through that again, you're mistaken." Then he realised he was speaking rather unkindly, and to me. "Sorry Marie. Long story, but I'm not going."

"I'd like to stay the night, Paul. Mildred has shown me the blue room, and I've unpacked."

"That's wonderful. Now I'm definitely not going out."

"And I'd like you to take me to the dinner. I know I can pass OK, remember, it's my job, and I'm good at it."

He really was flummoxed, I'd surprised him yet again. "Marie, I know you would pass, absolutely no trouble there, but the dinner, well, it starts in three-quarters of an hour. I'm not sure at all about this, and could you be ready in time anyway. It's a good fifteen minutes drive."

That floored me but I wasn't going to be defeated. "When are the presentations? At the beginning or the end?"

"They're after the dinner, at about half-past ten. They do a long fancy dinner there. But we'd both need over half an hour to get ready, surely."

"Half an hour? Paul, you have no idea. If I'm going to do this I need a major reconstruction. This is a big engineering job. Probably nearer an hour and a half, if you're lucky. I've got a black dress with me I think would suit fine."

"The Shirley Bassey one? Like I saw on the previous show. Long and slinky, you looked great in that."

"No, I don't do her any more, Paul. This one is a bit glitzier. It'll be fine at a golf club dinner, believe me, it's just the sort of thing for your girlfriend to wear. Look, George told me about last year's dinner. Well that was then and this is now. How about it?"

He smiled, very widely. "Marie, you are wonderful."

"Right, better go and make myself beautiful" I replied.

I did. Make myself beautiful, that is. While I'd been looking through the clothes as I unpacked them I'd been thinking what to wear and how to wear it, how to give exactly the right impression, the right effect. OK so I'd always done the glam aspect of a woman's appearance during my act, and I knew I could dress down to an extent and go for realism as I had earlier in the day. But all day I'd been feeling so feminine. I realised that with the dress I'd decided on, and the right make-up done ever-so-incredibly-carefully, I could do proper female glamour. I'd realised how.

OK so much of it was external, the clothes and the make-up. But that day, and in particular late that afternoon when I'd got very near to kissing Paul, something had clicked inside me, something about my feelings inside, about me being me, being Marie. I knew, I KNEW, that at the golf club that evening I could actually in some way or other actually BE Marie. Marie the woman, that is, in a way a compromise or rather a combination of the extrovert drag queen I'd been all my career and the convincing woman I'd been that day. I knew I could bring the two together.

Back in the blue room - my room - I locked the door behind me and totally stripped. I mean the lot, make-up, artificial and stick-on bits, wig, the lot. Time to start from fresh. I showered. I depilated even though really I didn't need to. I slipped on my very best-est black silk thong and nestled my cock into place, tightly tucked between my legs. And then I started on reconstructing myself.

The boobs were easy. I've always gone for a DD-cup myself even from my early days in drag. I reckon it's the right compromise. I've always wondered just how I looked if I went a little more extreme. Not stupid like JJ or something like that but with breasts bigger but not obscenely so, maybe FF, I still think I could get away with something like that. But DD is pretty full and I've always known I have the frame to carry them.

I have to admit that as I sat at the dresser after sticking them on and smoothing the cover-up gently over the edges to blend their colour in with my own skin, I did wonder just how I was cope with thrusting breasts in that dress. I don't know why I got it in a size 10 knowing full well I'd have problems levering my flesh into it, a 12 or even a 14 would have been a much more practical proposition. I knew the foundation wear would have to do a lot, in squeezing, lifting and thrusting, and I was just hoping I wouldn't have to back off and go back to the glittery tomato-red Dolly Parton dress. It was a very attractive dress and I knew I looked good in it but in that situation I wasn't going to be singing country-and-western. I was going to be as near as dammit a woman.

I knew the corsetry had to come next. The make-up and nails and so on would depend on my success. I knew exactly how I was going to dress the rest of my body, sheer seamed black stockings, my 6" black patent stilettos with the two ankle straps and big silver-coloured buckles, the silver-style jewellery and so on, but the basque was key. I held it up and loosened the back-straps. I shimmied my body into it and got the bra-cups as near as I could in place and then pulled on the straps.

Like I said, a big engineering job. I've read learned articles about how under-wired bras are designed to give women uplift, and about the stresses and strains a woman's body has to endure in carrying large breasts around. And there was a big feature in 'DQ' which is a sort-of trade magazine for girls in my profession about how to choose the right foundation wear. I've always gone for correctness in lingerie, hell, I know one drag queen who insisted on wearing his boxers under his dress but I wasn't into that. Claimed it helped keep some vestige of masculinity for her, or rather him. Me? No way. Silk knickers every time and expensive corset or basque, I'm always into doing whatever is necessary to get the proper female shape.

I pulled tight and then adjusted the bra-cup position. Then I pulled tight again, getting to the 'discomfort' stage. Which is where I usually stopped if I was doing this for my act. But I knew at that stage I wouldn't get that dress on. Too much bulk in the wrong places. I readjusted and got the cups and the under-wiring in their proper position, noticing with some considerable satisfaction that my cleavage was already looking impressive. Then I got my tightening bar.

'What's that?' I hear you ask? Well, it's my own design. It coils the straps from almost any type of cincher or basque and basically allows leverage. When you pull and twist you can lock it in place, then pull and twist again. It's a bit difficult doing that with your arms round your back, and almost impossible to manipulate if you've made the mistake of sticking your long nails on first. But it works. I'd often used it if I was after a more-than-impressive cleavage, like the Dolly dress, and had gone as far as doing the pull-and-twist process twice.

I needed more. I did it four times. Pull, twist, pull, twist and then repeat twice more. I was breathless, I managed to slip the bar out and unclip the straps, aching rather with the pressure on my midriff and abdomen. I knew if I went for one more go I'd pass out, I'd be restricting the blood-flow somewhere or other. I stood for a minute, just breathing and wriggling to let the basque settle into place and to allow some parts of my body to creep a little and relieve some of the pressure. After another minute the aching was receding. So it still felt ever-so-tight, I'd gone further than before but I knew it was going to be necessary.

When I looked in the mirror I realised I'd reached my limit. If I'd measured there and then I reckon I'd have ended up with something like 40-22-36. Top-heavy, yes, but that was really the whole point. I'd gone for minimal bum-padding, realising some of my own flesh would end up squeezed down there and the full pads would be too much. But I was so pleased with the cavernous cleavage I was revealing and confident I would actually be able to get the dress on. Tits-to-die-for, tits fuller and lifted more than I'd ever managed before. Yes!

I didn't do the dress yet, deciding the general movement around as I stretched and sat and went about the rest of my preparation would be simpler if I wasn't wearing it and that the general easing of bits of my body inside the basque would be able to continue as I moved. But, I realised, though I'd taken quite some time getting the hourglass figure right the other aspects of my look, wig and jewellery and make-up and so on, would have to be exactly right too. So, methodically if not exactly calmly, I set to in sliding my stockings on, teasing out my wig, and doing my face.

There at least I was on more familiar ground even though the vast majority of the times I'd made up before I'd been into big false eyelashes, over-budget lips and eyebrows which, though feminine in shape, could be seen at least from the middle of the hall. But I'd often practiced the more realistic feminine look specially for photo-shoots and so on where you really don't need to overdo things for the camera.

So I was able to quite quickly produce the almond-shaped, very slightly angled eyes with the right coverage and location of eye-liner and eye-shadow. And not do my eyebrows too thickly. And of course not overdo the blusher, a common tranny mistake I've always thought, so that it complemented rather than took anything away from my carefully crafted lipstick, lip-liner, and lip-gloss. With a selection of silver-based rings and my neck furniture and earrings in place, I was ready for the final two steps. I slid my shoes on and stood up, relieved that though my basque was ultra-tight it did its job, controlling my body and giving me the shape I wanted without restricting my movement too much.

And then the wig. Really I'd have liked to go for a different colour, not too different from the blonde I'd had before but a little more dramatic. However, with Mildred and George in mind, and of course the young man who'd seen me with Paul earlier in the day, I really had to stay with the same one, same length and same colour. I had just teased it a little, much easier to do with a good quality wig of course rather than a nylon one. Effectively too, I thought, looking in the mirror to get the final effect. Same wig but worn differently, just a slightly more exotic style with several wisps hanging down the one side of my neck. Really, in a sense, a good imitation of a modern-ish hairstyle, better than I'd hoped.

And then the dress. I took it from the hanger, un-zipped it, turned it round and stepped into it. Carefully. I'd bought it on a whim, an expensive whim. I'd been in a sex shop in Fulham looking for a slinky silver dress, having decided to work on a Shania Twain set for my next tour maybe. I'd not found that but I had ended up buying some long false nails in there because they were in a 'sale'. Yes, I'd thought it weird too, having something like that actually in a sale. But the dress had caught my eye just as I'd been leaving, I'd just had to turn right round and go back to the very butch woman who'd served me and ask about it.

'Yes' she'd said, 'we do have it in a 10 but not in a 12' and 'no, sir, not in blue or red, that dress is only in black' and 'oh I'm sure it would suit you, sir, you'd look totally gorgeous in it' and 'well, sir, with the right sort of peignoir I'm sure you could get into the 10' and loads more guff like that. Basically she wanted a sale. I'd declined the offer to try it on there and then and also avoided any sort of lingerie and so on. I knew if my FD basque wouldn't work with it, nothing would.

It slid up and into place, I was glad to see when I'd got the waist adjusted that it was very short but not too short. I know many trannies like to wander the streets with their stocking tops on show, I'd done it myself once, but I didn't do that sort of thin as a matter of course. And certainly at the Golf Club it might not be appreciated. On the other hand ....

However. The fitting progressed, not totally as well as I'd hoped but better than I'd feared. I managed to get the bodice round my bust and start to pull the zip up at the back without straining my back or my arm or anything. There was a slight hitch when I realised the stitching just inside the bust of the dress had snagged on the wiring in my basque - maybe a little bit of needlework needed there later - but once I'd realised that it wasn't too difficult to edge it over the basque cups and into place, and then pull the back zip right up. I wriggled and shrugged a bit, really to make absolutely sure my boobs were not going to be able to pop out. I picked up my little black evening bag and looked in the long mirror.

I was pleased. Hell, I was thrilled. But I wasn't really surprised. And the reason for that was simple, I'd just known it was going to work. It hadn't been a case of dressing and trying something new and hoping everything was going to work out OK. After my experiences of the afternoon and the evening I'd been totally confident in my ability to carry it off. Really it had been the chat with Mildred rather than anything Paul or George had said or done. For the very first time in my career, indeed in my life, I'd been a woman with a woman. Chatting, giggling, smiling, just being. I'd never got such satisfaction out of any of my previous attempts at femininity, whether as a drag queen or as a transvestite - or as a woman. I was glowing inside.

For once, and it was something I'd never really thought about before, my mindset was right. Me. Marie. Woman. It worked! I spent another couple of minutes putting the essentials into my tiny evening bag, lipstick of course, and mascara and my small black-and-silver comb. There really wasn't room in there for anything else, not even my small pack of ultra-long cigarettes or my lighter.

I often carried them for effect really, and for my Dietrich part of my act. OK so she was around a long time ago but people still remember her, and her songs. And quite a few fans had told me I did her so well. I'd even had problems with a producer once, when I'd done 'Falling in Love Again' for my second album. He'd made me re-record the vocal because he said I did it too well. I'd got the timing, the timbre, the accent, the lot, it had sounded too good. We ended up not putting it on the album anyway. Maybe it would get pulled out and released after I was dead, and get released and go to No. 1!

'Ready' I thought? Nearly. I did slide a credit card into my evening purse. Simply because I always did, I just had to have something there to get me out of a major hole if somehow somewhere, something went drastically wrong. The card was from a Bank I'd joined specially, for one simple reason. There, embossed on the bottom right, were the word 'M KING'. No Mr or Mrs or even Ms, and no full first name. Gender-neutral, it was. Of course I'd have preferred 'M QUEEN' but I couldn't have that. One final glance in the mirror, a wriggle in the boob area to make absolutely sure, and I was ready. I opened the door.

I walked boldly and confidently along the corridor to the big staircase. Then a little more carefully in my stilettos, down the stairs to make my grand appearance. I could hear voices, Paul and George. They were in a room off the hall, I thought they must be in what Mildred had called the library when she'd given me the tour. Unfortunately neither could see me descending the stairs which wrecked that aspect of my entrance, still, a girl can't have everything.

I stepped across the hall and into the library. The guys were both there, Paul with his back to me, George facing him and discussing something-or-other. I walked through the doorway and stopped. Oddly enough I don't think either had taken particular note of my clicking footsteps outside the door, it was when they stopped that George first looked over his boss's shoulder.

".... the next time we have to ... oh my!"

Well, something of a reaction. He'd stopped talking and was staring. I knew why. If I couldn't, after all my efforts, silence a couple of guys like George and Paul then I wasn't the drag queen, or rather the transvestite, I thought I was. Paul turned round. They both just stood there. I knew I had to be careful, Paul was expecting to see an attractive but convincing transvestite, but it had been important George didn't see me as that. He had to see me as a woman.

"Sorry I've been so long, Paul."

"Marie!" Paul didn't say anything else. He turned and looked at George. I think he was maybe concerned about George's presence, maybe in just the way I'd been worried too. If I was to accompany Paul that evening to the 'do' at the golf club I really did have to convince. I'd done so earlier but that time I'd gone for 'attractive'. Now I'd gone for glamour. The short tight shoulder-less dress, low-cut and bedecked with sparkly bits round the bodice, and the striking make-up, all were designed to impress. As were the teased blonde hair and the legs of course, and the heels.

When Paul looked back, it was my shoes he was staring at. I knew why. Six-inch heels, universally known in the tranny world as 'FM stilettos', could in some sense be regarded as a dead give-away. If I was to carry them off, to get away with the long legs wearing sheer black stockings, the rest had to be absolutely right. All of it. Every strand of my wig, every stroke of my mascara _ well, the lot. It was verdict time.

"Marie. You look stunning. Am I right, George?"

"You bloody are. Sorry, Paul."

I walked up to my escort. My turn to give him the once-over. Even in my heels he was maybe an inch and a half above me. Tall. And handsome. Yes. And dark, apart from a few strands of grey in his hair.

"Marie." Paul was looking at me, intently but rather seriously just for a moment I wondered if I'd made some sort of major blunder, wrong colour lipstick with those nails or something. But no, it was something else.

"Will you take off your earrings, please, and that necklet. Could you help, George, please?" And he walked off. I was puzzled, very puzzled.

"Don't worry Miss, I reckon I know what this is about. Here, let me help you with the clasp on your necklet. My Mildred has one a little like this, she always has trouble with it."

George, from behind me, undid the clasp and removed the silver necklet. And I unhooked my earrings and put them in his outstretched hand. "I'll look after those until later, Miss" he said, turning to put them down near to the phone behind him.

"What's going on, George?" I asked. But before he could answer Paul returned carrying a wide thin black box. I knew what was in it or course, that style of case carries jewellery of some kind, obviously. He opened it as if he was offering me two pistols to choose from for a duel. But it wasn't pistols, it was - a necklace. And a pair of earrings. It was my turn to be surprised.

There, on the black velvet surface, was the most beautiful item of jewellery I'd ever seen in my life. A diamond necklace. Paul obviously couldn't have known but silver filigree has always seemed to me the very essence of fine, quality jewellery. Much more so than gold even, or platinum. I just LOVE the intricate patterns of the very fine silver. And you can't fake it. Imitation sprayed-steel costume jewellery, even silver plate, it just doesn't look right. And the necklace I was looking it was so beautiful, a silver chain with filigree curlicues hanging from it, and the whole mesh studded with diamonds. I had no doubt at all, these were not paste or even CZ. They were real. The matching earrings were equally gorgeous, long strands of silver bedecked with, again, real diamonds.

"Paul! That is so beautiful!" I just looked at him. "If you're asking me if I'd like to wear them tonight, Paul, if you need to ask you don't know me well enough!"

And then I realised, I was going to have to take more care. Not the voice, that had been perfect, I'm a good enough professional never to drop my timbre into anything at all male when I'm en femme. But the words and the intonation had been almost tranny-like, and with George there that just would not do. Paul took the necklace and laid it across my chest, this time it was he who did the tiny clasp behind my neck. I took the earrings and skipped out into the hall to look into the mirror there to slide the small silver hooks into my ears. I looked at the effect, the glitter of the diamonds and the silver complemented the slight shimmering of the silver-coloured strands woven into the bodice of my dress.

Paul was standing beside me. "Marie, you are beautiful. Just the one final touch. This might cause some comments tonight but, what the hell!" And he slid a silver ring, not exactly matching but the same style, onto the third finger of my left hand. "It doesn't look like an engagement ring which is probably just as well. But, tongues will wag."

It was my turn to be speechless. Nearly. "Paul, really, I feel like a million dollars!" And despite George being there I just had to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Just that, short and sweet but I really was so grateful.

"Well, in dollars they're probably only about half a million." And he said it so calmly. Half a million! I didn't even think about the exchange rate, I just knew it was an awful lot of pounds. "I got them for Kathleen last year but - bad timing. It was just before the presentations last year, then the details of the affair came out and I thought why should she have them, no way. So I just put them in the safe. She'd have looked good in them, Marie, but you look stunning!"

"Permission to speak, Sir?"

It was George. He was looking at the two of us. As he did I just stretched my hand sup to slightly adjust Paul's black bow tie. Very wifely, or girl-friendly at least. But George was saying something important, clearly, hence the 'Sir'.

I don't want to speak out of turn, Paul. But. I know Mildred was chatting to Miss Marie earlier and she said something about that Dorothy who came here a few months ago."

I really didn't know what George was going to say and I was a little upset he'd referred to what Mildred and I had been talking about. I could tell Paul wasn't totally happy either.

"Sir. I just got to say this. With Miss Dorothy and that Mrs Agatha who came as well a bit ago, well, if there's any sort of three way contest going with them two and with Miss Marie, Sir ..."

He paused for a moment. "... they haven't a cat in hell's chance, Sir, those two. No chance at all."

Paul smiled. And I went over and kissed George briefly too.

"Marie, we'd better go" said Paul as he took his car keys from the pocket of his dinner jacket. But George walked over to him and almost grabbed them from his grasp.

"I'm driving Paul, you'd never keep your eyes on the road. Not with those legs beside you." Which was really as rude as George got.

So he drove us to the Golf Club. Paul had told me he didn't want to stay long, just to mingle a bit and do his presentations. That was fine by me, I was still on a high after Paul's reaction and George's comments but there was something else I had to get sorted out.

"I'm a bit worried, Paul" I said quietly as we sat together in the back of the car. George had the radio on, again not loudly, I knew I was safe and he wouldn't hear me. "If there are people there who were at the show, or saw the adverts maybe. With 'Marie Queen' on them. You know what I mean. If you introduce me as Marie or Miss Queen, the penny might drop."

"I get your point Marie, but believe me, nobody is going to make the link. Absolutely nobody would believe you're a TV, or a drag queen. Not looking like you do."

"But to be sure, look. My credit card says 'M KING'. How about introducing me as Mary King. Would that do?"

Paul looked at me, it was difficult to make out his expression in the back of the car but I heard his voice OK.

"Darling, tonight, whatever you want. Mary King it is."

George pulled up right outside the main entrance of the club. Just for a moment, having been so confident a couple of minutes earlier when we'd been discussing names, Paul seemed hesitant. Not me. I was ready for this. I squeezed his hand. "Come on, Paul. It's Showtime!"

We walked in together, my right arm entwined with Paul's left. We'd timed it well. People were just beginning to troop out of what I assumed to be the dining room and towards the bar. I'd asked Paul in the car why the awards weren't done during the dinner in what I assumed would be the usual fashion. It turned out that a few years earlier there had been trouble with some over-drunk guests actually cat-calling and throwing food even at one of the speakers so they'd split the awards off the next year and done them in the bar.

And they'd just carried on, they'd felt the new arrangement was working so they'd stuck with it. As we walked towards the bar one of the crowd noticed us and moved towards us, with his wife. "Hello Paul, welcome. I'm glad you decided to do this. Very brave of you..." He tailed off, looking towards me.

"Carl, let me introduce you. Mary, dear, this is Dr Carl James, Club President, and Janet. Carl, Janet, this is my friend Mary."

No explanation offered, none needed. A basic introduction, that's all that was necessary in that situation. I smiled and offered my hand, a little limply on purpose. I'm slightly fortunate to have rather small hands, not really a benefit for playing the piano but fine for impersonating a woman. We chatted for a few minutes, and I knew I was putting forward the right image, basically that of Paul's girlfriend, companion, whatever. Let them think whatever they wanted as long as it involved Paul and his woman-friend. Then we followed the end of the crowd through into the bar.

Grand entrances I can do. I'd done it often enough in full drag and I knew I would impress as the woman I was being. This was easy. Compared to facing a hostile crowd in Scunthorpe after they've had to watch a duo of crap jugglers, while wearing that tomato-red Dolly P. dress and a big bouffant platinum wand wig, and thrusting out your arms to 'embrace' the crowd and launching into 'Stand by your man', compared to that it was easy. OK this was as a woman rather than in drag but I knew it would work. I'd got the mindset right.

Most drag artistes never try, maybe they should. Go for female rather than drag, I mean, not every time but just sometimes. Some trannies do, I know that. The female-and-glamorous combination, maybe trannies have the motivation. As Paul and I strolled into the bar accompanying Carl and his wife, I'm delighted to say that some sort of hush descended on the assembled diners. They were looking - at Paul, sure, after his difficulties the previous year quite a few of them had probably heard that he wasn't going to be there.

But they were looking at me too. I'd seen glamorous TVs before, on the Internet mainly, girls like Julie and Katye and Brina, often out for the night with a handsome bisexual man and having a whale of a time showing off their femininity in gorgeous gowns and with carefully crafted make-up. That evening, at that moment, I knew I'd joined the club. The crafting and the glamour, and the confidence, had all worked to come together at that moment. Everyone was looking, we were the centre of attention, and I was loving it. I looked across at Paul's expression. He'd realised the impact we were having too and was, like me, excited. Quite probably he was aroused too at that moment, it was a distinctly erotic event. I felt a slight stirring in my own tucked member but I over-ruled it and smiled at him.

I leant across and, very quietly and sexily, whispered in his ear. "Take it easy my love. You know this is going to work. Come on, you need to mingle."

Quite what they thought I had whispered, I don't know, but a slight buzz of conversation filled the room. I eased Paul forward and a waiter appeared in front of us carrying a tray of glasses of champagne. Paul handed one to me and I sipped it gently. And we mingled. We mingled for about ten minutes, sipping our champagne, greeting people, chatting about the weather and golf (Paul, mainly with the men) and my dress (with the women). Not that the guys didn't notice the dress of course, what with the long sheer black legs, the bare shoulders and prominent breasts, and the jewellery, they couldn't help notice.

It was wonderful. Smiles all over, for all sorts of reasons, but I'm delighted to say that the main cause of the men's delight was indeed just being in the presence of such a charming, smiling, provocatively dressed woman. I knew I'd be good in the role and I was so right. If they'd been filming I'd have deserved an Oscar, probably for 'Best Actress in a Leading Roll'. or maybe for 'Make-Up'. I'd certainly have deserved that.

As the awards began Paul and I moved over towards the guy giving the speeches. And at the right time Paul handed over the little plaques for 'Best young boy golfer' and 'Best young girl golfer'. The 'Best young boy' was Donald, the lad from the bar in the Forester earlier in the day. And splendid he looked too in his new and slightly too large dinner suit. And not too embarrassed when as he came away with his plaque I took his hand gently and whispered 'Well done, Donald' as I kissed him on the cheek. That couldn't have done his reputation with his mates any harm.

After a few more minutes I noticed Paul looking a little concerned, maybe tired, maybe even a little worried. Things were really going well, I knew it but Paul wasn't getting the same feedback as me. I'd spent many years gauging the mood of a crowd, working an audience, judging how well an act was going. I knew we were making an impression, exactly the right sort of impression but I had to be aware of Paul's sensibilities. Time to go. I took him by the hand.

"Darling, I really think we should be making a move now. I know it's not too late but, well, we've got things to do." Loudly but not too loudly, easily loud enough for Paul to hear. I led him, not very reluctantly towards the exit door, all the while looking round for George. He was there, just inside the door, talking to another driver maybe, anyway as soon as he saw us heading his way he got up and leant forward to push the doors open.

"George, time to go I think."

"Sure miss." He disappeared out of the door at a rate of knots while Paul and I sought out the Club President again to say our goodbyes. The evening's outing was extended by a few minutes when two or three of the other guests realised Paul was leaving, and that he was taking 'Mary' with him so we had to shake hands and clasp hands and do little kisses with about six or seven others before we could make our getaway. But we did, I positively skipped out of the front doors when we realised George had brought the car around.

I don't think either of us trusted ourselves to speak quietly about how we were feeling while George was driving. We were both pretty much on a high with a combination of excitement and relief. Anyway, George hadn't put the radio on. So we restricted ourselves to innocuous comments about how the evening had gone in general and what we had said and done rather than say anything at all about the deception we'd just carried out.

But as we went into the front door back at the Grange while George drove the car round the back I just couldn't help giving Paul's hand a firm squeeze.

"Ouch!" he said.

"Sorry" I said "What are you doing? What about George?" Paul was locking the front door behind us and turning off the lights in the hall.

"It's OK, he'll go in the other front door. His and Mildred's. Hang on a moment, Mary, I'll just check the door off the kitchen and so on. You go into the sitting room, I imagine Mildred has got the fire going in there."

And indeed she had. There was a large log fire blazing in the hearth and a bottle of champagne on ice in one of those special buckets. And, I was thrilled to see, two of the wide type of champagne glasses. I know you're supposed to use the proper fluted ones but I've still got a soft spot for the older, more bulbous ones, the ones where you get the bubbles up your nose. I stood in front of the fire for half a minute or so, shivering a little because of the excitement of the evening as well as the chill in the air outside as we'd walked up to the front door. 'Not surprising Mary' I thought to myself. 'Not with this dress on, there's not a lot of it, not with bare arms and shoulders and protruding boobs.'

I looked round. I walked over to the stereo and glanced through the CD titles there. Typical back-catalogue stuff, Queen, Presley, Beatles, Sinatra. Yes! 'Songs for Swinging Lovers'. I slid the CD in and clicked it on, turning the volume down to quite low. Just basic romantic background music. Then I went over and turned down the dimmer switch on the lights on the chandelier. I say on the imitation fur rug in front of the fire, ready. Paul came in and looked round. "What's all this?"

"Paul. Shut the door please. Why don't you open the champagne and pour some for us, then come and sit here. We have things to talk about."

For five minutes maybe we sipped our champagne and discussed the events of the evening much more openly that we'd been able to in the car with George. Then, as I was going to say something about Donald, I decided not to. I stopped. I looked at Paul.

"Look, let's be realistic about this. You're sitting here drinking champagne and laughing and joking with a man dressed up as a woman. Lots of men would totally freak out at the thought of that. So, how does it grab you? I need to know, and don't just go for the guff and the flattery. I need to know your honest opinion."

I'd reminded him. That it wasn't really Marie Queen sitting with him or even Mary King. He was sitting with Martin King, not exactly in drag, that's not how I'd have described myself at that moment. Simply, I was a man dressed as a woman and most of the time acting like one. Paul was clearly having some difficulty encapsulating his thoughts.

"Well, Mary. I do want to call you that, honest, to me you are Mary. OK so I know it's some sort of impersonation but, Christ, you do look so gorgeous, so provocative, and that's not flattery. It's the honest truth."

I don't know what I'd really expected him to say but that seemed a good starting point.

"Paul, I should warn you. You've probably never kissed a man before, except maybe a grandfather or something like the pecks on the cheek we've done a few times. Well, I'm feeling aroused right now. I think it's extremely likely I'm going to want to kiss you in about two minutes. And I don't mean a quick peck on the cheek either. Sorry to keep going on about it, I don't usually with guys but I've never got so involved with a man before. This seems different."

When I'd said 'I don't usually with guys', at the moment the words had left my mouth, I wondered if Paul would squirm at the thought, maybe pull away from what we seemed to be moving towards. He got the message, sure, but he didn't pull back.

"With guys, you said. I mean - do you actually do this often, with men I mean."

He was a little flustered, I could tell. "I have, Paul but not often. Listen, the last man I had inside me was nearly a year ago and that was a one night stand. It was fun, and then it was over. He didn't even stay the night. But my darling, this is different. He is an out-and-out gay guy and you're not. Forty-eight hours ago you were a totally straight man who just had a bit of a penchant for drag queens. Now you're moving on - if you want to."

I reached out to caress Paul's cheek with my right hand, enjoying again the slight tingle as my fingers moved down towards his chin. "Hell, Mary, I do SO want to. I NEED to."

"OK then, let's do this right." I shuffled round a little to stretch my long nylon-covered legs out in front of him, not caring this time that my dress slid up a little to reveal my stocking tops and an inch or two of bare thigh. Paul noticed, there was a sharp intake of breath.

I moved just a little closer to him. I'd had so much fun being Marie, or Mary, already and wanted to get the absolute maximum amount of erotic pleasure out of what Paul and I both knew what was going to happen next. At least I knew, been there, done that, got the T-shirt. And I think Paul knew something of what I had in mind for us. But there was still room for surprise, still the chance of a thrill from Paul's reaction as the situation progressed. He was after all a virgin in TV matters and I'd not been with a virgin man for quite a few years I still remembered the look of pure delight on that guy's face, in Surrey somewhere I think, when he'd got his first glimpse of what I had between my legs.

"Now my love. Put your hand on my leg ... that's right, now slide it up my thigh slowly, just up to the top of my stocking ... Oooh"

I was getting excited obviously, Paul was over the moon already. I leaned over to nuzzle his neck with my nose, slowly moving up to gently bite his ear. "How is that for you my love?" I whispered invitingly.

"Jeez, Marie, that is, oh my God, it's just wonderful. I never imagined - you know!"

I knew. I'd been seventeen when I'd first been seduced by a trannie. And that had been all the more fun because I'd not realised, despite being in a gay club in Birmingham at the time, that she was a guy. I'd actually been naive enough to think I'd pulled the only GG in the place.

I whispered again, sliding my red creamy lips across his ear-lobes. "Now darling, slide your hand up further, over the stocking tops, as far as you want. But do it slowly, Paul, believe me, don't rush it. The slower the better. Foreplay should be fun and should be stretched."

As Paul's hand did indeed move further up my thigh, over the bare leg and under the hem of my dress, I began to make my own move. Still caressing his ear with my lips I reached down and pulled steadily on the zip on his pants. He felt, and saw, my hands and I could feel the reaction between his legs. I slid my hand in and stroked his erect penis.

"Paul, I think it's about time you kissed me. Yes?"

"Oh yes!!"

"Let's go upstairs" I whispered, standing and reaching down for him. He took my hand and stood, we both adjusted our dress slightly and made our way up, hand in hand, to the Master bedroom. I turned towards him and slid my fingers past his trouser zip.

"Well?" was all I said. It was enough. We kissed. Lightly. Gently. Just touching my lips to Paul's at first, then becoming a little more adventurous. I was aware that this was the first time Paul had properly kissed a man, and also that he'd never had a guy fondling his cock before.

"Paul. You all right with this?"

"Oh hell, Marie, yes. That is SO good, I never thought .....Oh!"

We lay on the bed. I knew Paul wasn't about to fuck me, he always was and is a gentleman. He was going to make love to me. The manner of his kiss told me that. If he'd had any doubts at all earlier, the events of the evening and the beginnings of our amorous encounter downstairs had made up his mind for him. He was such a gorgeous man, I needed to give him the pleasure of his first sexual release with a woman like me. I reached down.

Paul's cock was by then rock hard. I put my other arm around him and pulled him towards me, kissing him passionately this time. I grabbed his shirt as I pulled him towards me, then pushed him away and tried my best to undo the buttons very quickly. Paul had to help me though, there are some things you just can't do while wearing very long nails. My hand went to the soft patch of hair on his chest. Still kissing him, I ran my other hand across. his crotch and rubbed his throbbing penis. I pulled back again to look at my lover-to-be.

"My, Paul, you are large down there!," I said as I stroked his cock while staring into his eyes. Each time my hand passed over the head of his cock, his body jerked.

"You are such a sexy woman," Paul whispered. "

"Mmmm, you do say the nicest things. Now, last chance, Paul, are you really sure about this?" I had to give him a final let-out, it seemed only fair. His reply was instant, he didn't say anything, just slid his own hand round to caress my breasts as I continued stroking his erection.

"I'm sure, why do you keep hesitating, Marie? I'm hornier now than I've ever been in my life! Please! I need sex, and I need it with you, and I need it now!"

I smiled at him as I continued stroking. Lying there in my lingerie, his hand caressing me, my long stocking-clad legs stretched out across the bed, I realised that we were both indeed ready for fully-fledged man-and-transvestite sex, for a damn good anal fucking. And still wearing my six-inch high stilettos too.

"All right then, my darling, don't say you haven't been warned. I'm a bit of an animal when I've got a man's hard cock up my bum."

"And a gorgeous animal at that" was his reply.

I relaxed, ready for the hard-core sex that was about to come.

"Paul, I want you in me! I want you to make love to me."

I opened my legs and felt Paul trying to manoeuvre himself into place.

"Here, let me help, darling," I murmured, guiding him past the edge of my thong and towards my waiting hole. Almost immediately he thrust forward - and slid right in!

I gasped. It felt so good, so right, I dug my long fingernails into his back as he pounded into me. I arched my back to ease his access, and he speeded up. He was horny as hell, and so was I! I could tell from the way his thrusting built up so quickly that he was close to filling me with his hot sperm.

"Marie, I can't hold it, I'm going to cum. I'm going to fill you!"

"Wait!" I murmured, and eased my lover from on top of me. We lay there side-by-side, his wonderfully erect penis still inside me, still moving gently, still caressing the inside of my arse-hole.

"I want to make this special for you, my love."

I couldn't believe I'd actually said that - 'my love'! I pulled the bed covers to one side so Paul could see what I was doing. I eased myself off from him and shuffled across, grabbing the base of his prick and teasing the head with my lips.

"Oh my God, Marie. That feels so good. Oh yes, suck on me, baby. Suck my cock!"

I sucked on Paul's wonderful penis slowly, my lips sliding slowly up and down on him as I held his scrotum gently in my hand. I opened my eyes and managed to look up, Paul had his eyes almost closed, his face a picture of ecstasy as he watched me. He reached down to lightly run his fingers through my hair. All the while I cradled my lover's cock with my cool tongue and slid my mouth up and down. When I felt Paul settle and relax a little, I slid my luscious mouth from his cock and smiled at him.

"Now Paul," I said as I laid his shaft in my cleavage and pushed my tits around it.

"I think we're both ready for this."

I started moving my body up and down so his cock was fucking my tits.

"Oh my God, Marie, no woman has ever done that to me with her tits. That is so amazing, it feels absolutely incredible."

"Climb up on me," he said to me.

"What? I don't understand."

"Cuddle up to me and slip my cock inside you."

I smiled and did as I was told. A long moan escaped my luscious red lips as I slid down onto Paul's rod and wrapped my legs around his waist. I gasped as he drove his cock really deep into me, I was squealing with each thrust of that gorgeously swollen organ. My legs were locked behind him, my arms were around him and my tits were now pushed flat against his chest.

Paul wrapped his arms around my arse and drove himself even deeper into my 'cunt'. My mouth went to his neck as I squeezed him tight with my legs and my thighs began to twitch almost uncontrollably.

"This is so fucking good, Paul. I love it! I LOVE IT!!!! God, it's so... fucking... GOOD!"

I stared at him and smiled. My eyes briefly closed at the sheer pleasure of each thrust of his shaft.

"Do you want it deeper, darling? Do you want it deeper?"

"Oh my God! You can go deeper?"

I was now looking at him in disbelief. This was indeed turning into a real hard-core session.

"Yes - I think I can! Do you want it?"

"Yes, I do! Fuck me deeper, Paul! Drive it deeper into my cunt!

Paul put his hands on the backs of my knees and pushed them to my chest. My arse was lifted off the bed and my face was almost buried in my big tits. He drilled his hard cock into me as hard as he could again and again. His balls were slapping on my arse and I reached between my legs and started rubbing my own swollen 'clit'.

"Oh Jesus, Paul, I'm going to cum! I'm going to cum! Fuck me hard and deep! Give it to me hard and deep! You're making me cum!!"

With every ounce of energy we had left we pursued our joint goal. Paul slammed as deep into my 'cunt' as I thought possible as my own red-nailed hand rubbed my own cock as fast as I could. The sound of my lover's balls slapping on my arse filled our ears. Suddenly my arse muscles tightened on his cock, I'd reached my own point of no return. I just threw my arms back and stretched my arms out in the sheer ecstasy of the moment, arching her back and almost screaming.

"Oh, Paul! Oh, oh, OH , that's it! I'm cumming! It's so FUCKING GOOD!!!!!!!

I almost automatically tried to straighten my legs but Paul kept them pinned to my chest and slammed his cock into me. I kept on screaming as my own climaxing organ shot semen hard across our stomachs. And almost simultaneously Paul climaxed too, it was his turn to shout and scream as I felt his own orgasm rippled through his body.

"Oooh GOD! Mary, your cunt is fucking wonderful, I'm cumming.... oh God, my cock ....!" he screamed, and with a final hard thrust his rod exploded deep into my dripping hole.

My body was shaking underneath him, when I felt the pressure of him holding me down relax, I pushed him with my legs. He fell onto his back on the bed and lay there. I smiled at the sight of his cock, covered in his semen. He closed his eyes and soon I slid my mouth over to engulf his shaft. He tried to squirm away but the feeling of my lips and tongue wiping his cock clean of the steamy, sticky fluid was just too much.

"Mary, that was...."

"Hush my love, I've not finished yet."

I dug my nails into his hips and wouldn't let him move until I had sucked and slurped it all off his cock and balls. When I had finished I lay down next to him and draped my arm over his chest. He turned his head to face me. We kissed, gently and lovingly.

"Paul...."

"Not now, my love." He closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

I lay there for almost an hour. Without doubt, Paul had just had an unforgettable experience. But so had I. The whole day, being a woman in public and in bed, had been way beyond any sexual experience I'd ever had with anyone of either gender. So. What next?

Could I really just go back to being a male who worked as a female impersonator? I had a contract to fulfil, so I hadn't a choice really, in no way would I go back on a contractual obligation. But, I only had the one more show in the season.

What about the video idea? What about the possible collaboration with Fifi? The offers my agent had received, not as many as in the past but there were some at least? His suggestions that I may be able to get a panto next Christmas?

Hell, what was I thinking about? What about the gorgeous rich guy who had just fucked me so vigorously? I opened my eyes and looked at my sleeping, smiling lover. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day.

 

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