Tango

by Oak

Chapter 1

I had known students like him before: shy, nervous, lacking confidence. I do not know what possesses them to attempt to learn the Tango. Many hope to master their confidence through mastery over their bodies. After all, it is the most masculine, and feminine, of all dance. Some discover that mastery, while many do not.

On the phone, Dennis did not sound like one who would excel as a dancer. He spoke very softly with a stutter. He struggled to answer the simple questions I asked: his dance experience, his goals, even his availability. We set apart Friday evenings for his lessons. He was occupied with work all other weeknights and I with lessons on weekends. It would seem that neither one of us entertained much of a social life.

I had my doubts after our phone conversation, but I try not to pass judgment on others. My doubts deepened when I met him at my door that first Friday evening. At first glance, he seemed very small in every way. He was certainly small in stature: perhaps 5-foot-4, very thin with small, rounded shoulders. Of course, many excellent dancers of the Tango are short men.

But Dennis seemed small in other respects as well. Even his personality and demeanor seemed small, almost invisible. His clothing was wrinkled and unmatched. He did not meet my eyes when I greeted him. Nor did I hear whatever response that he may have returned. Yet hospitality demanded that I not keep him in my doorway.

Once inside, I looked down and all graciousness disappeared. "Did you bring other shoes with you?" I asked. I already guessed the answer. He was wearing athletic shoes. Without looking up, he shook his head. "I specifically told you to bring leather-soled shoes. The Tango cannot be danced on rubber soles."

He did look up, and his miserable expression made me regret speaking to him thus. "How long would it take for you to travel home and back?" I asked.

"A-a-about an hour," he stammered in his high nasal voice. It had an edge to it as if he were a scolded adolescent whose voice was on the verge of breaking.

"There is no point in attempting a lesson with these shoes. What are we to do?" I asked rhetorically. I looked again at his feet. They were far too small to fit into my shoes, or most men's shoes for that matter. I shook my head at the waste of time the evening would be for both of us.

A strange idea crossed my mind. I invited him to sit in a chair while I went into the bedroom. I walked into my wife's closet.

At this point, I should explain a matter that is very painful to me. My dear wife Maria passed away some years before. She was struck down by cancer in the prime of life. I never made peace with my loss. I still spoke to her every day. I could not bear to part with or relocate even one of her possessions. Her magnificent dance wardrobe still occupied the larger of our two closets.

I looked through the rows of shoes for the least feminine footwear with the lowest heels. I found a pair that seemed suitable. They were clearly women's shoes, but they looked comfortable enough for a night's dancing in private.

His eyes lit up when he saw the shoes. "If you do not object to wearing women's shoes for the evening, this pair may fit. They belonged to my late wife."

He took the shoes from my hands and eagerly pulled off his own. He put on my wife's shoes, stood up and walked about the room a bit. "They are perfect!" he said, with no hint of a stammer.

"Then let us begin the lesson." We moved to the one large room that serves as my studio. I put on appropriate music. I showed him the proper way to walk, to turn, to hold his body, his arms and his hands. He did try in earnest, I admit, but with little success. There seemed to be no measure of rhythm or style in him. He was filled with self-consciousness. I attempted to teach him the most basic steps, but my attempts were in vain. When the hour was complete, he looked very discouraged. I hoped that he did not see this reflected in my expression or in my eyes. Disappointment is difficult to disguise.

His look of discouragement was replaced by another look as he removed the borrowed shoes. Was it longing? This intrigued me.

As he wrote me a check, I asked him if he wished to continue the lessons the next week. He said that he did. I instructed him on the exercises that he should perform before the lesson. I reminded him again to bring proper shoes.

After he left, I wondered if it was right to continue with these attempts. The hour seemed so painful to him. I finally concluded that he was free to make own decisions about the value and emotional cost of these lessons. I had no right to cancel his hopes after only one lesson. I confess also that I needed the extra income that even an unpromising student could bring.

 

Chapter 2

The intervening week was a busy one and I did not think much about Dennis until he arrived at my door the following Friday. That meeting played out much as the first had. He still looked very small. Again, he wore athletic shoes and his hands were empty. I motioned with my eyes toward his feet. He merely blushed darkly. I invited him in and went back into the bedroom to retrieve my wife's shoes that he had borrowed the previous Friday.

To begin the lesson, I asked him to repeat any of the moves I showed him before. He could not complete any of them, despite his protests of daily practice. I attempted to put aside all discouragement and disapproval. I continued on with the lessons as if he had progressed.

I noticed a remarkable pattern: when I showed him steps, with him dancing in the woman's position, he was unusually open to my lead. His dancing improved dramatically. Yet when we switched positions and I submitted to his lead, the results were disastrous. We switched back and forth many times like this, as if conducting an experiment, and each time I saw the same results.

When the hour ended, I looked on while he took off my wife's shoes. I asked again "Are you certain that you wish to continue the lessons?"

He looked at me soulfully and said "Please?"

I could not refuse such a look. I reminded him to bring dancing shoes and then I bade him goodbye until the following Friday.

When Friday arrived, he came to the door of my flat at his usual time. When I opened the door, he was blushing even before I looked down at his shoes. It was not possible that he had forgotten them a third time. He was too deeply embarrassed each time to not learn from the experience.

I thought this through even as I let him in. Somehow my wife's shoes held some kind of fascination for him. This intrigued me. I developed a theory that I was curious to test.

This time, I invited him to come with me into the bedroom. I pointed out my wife's closet and asked him to go to the back to retrieve the shoes. Once inside, he was dazzled by all of the dresses and costumes that surrounded him. Anyone would be impressed by this large collection of beautiful clothing. Yet, his interest was of a deeper variety. He stopped to feel the fabric of some of the dresses. He lifted up the sleeve of a particularly lovely dress to look at it more closely. I must say that he had very good taste. I drew nearer, startling him. He had forgotten that I was behind him.

I was not sure how to make the suggestion, so I decided to be direct. "I noticed the last time that you seemed to learn more easily if you danced in the woman's role. If you prefer, you can continue in that role, so that you may better learn the man's role through my lead. And if it would help you more fully experience the woman's role, you are welcome to wear a dress such as this one while we dance."

He turned to look at the sleeve he still held and immediately dropped it. His look passed from bewilderment to fear to the same longing that I had seen before. I was now certain that he desired what I had offered but was fearful to admit to it. To relieve him of his internal struggle, I took the dress off of the rail and beckoned him to follow me. I lay the dress down upon the bed and returned to the closet to retrieve a box. I opened the box and his eyes grew wider still. I pulled from the box a long straight wig, with bangs in the front, of a medium brown color that matched his hair. I placed it upon a wig stand that I had also retrieved from the closet and put them upon the dresser table.

The longing in his eyes now reached a crescendo. I could not leave him in this struggle for long. I went back to the closet and returned with the same pair of shoes as before, which I placed beside the bed. "If you would like to wear these to dance in the woman's role tonight, you are welcome to do so. But do not feel pressured to do so. Alternatively, I can teach you the man's role tonight if you feel you are ready. I will wait outside while you make your choice. In either case, I will pull down all of the window shades."

After I had fulfilled my promise to pull down the shades, I went to the room that serves as my office and study and poured myself a glass of brandy. I figured that I had time while Dennis made his decision. It was clear what he wanted, but less clear whether he would allow himself his desires.

It may seem strange to others that I should accept this unusual situation so easily. In my native Buenos Aires, it was not uncommon for certain men to dress openly as women. There is less shame in the habit there. I have never known someone who practiced this habit, but it did not disturb me. I only hoped that I did not embarrass the poor man when I offered him the choice.

It took a very long time, but Dennis finally did emerge from the bedroom. He had made his decision: he wore the dress and the wig. From a distance and from the corner of my eye, he looked like a woman. The dress was floor-length and it fully covered his shoulders and arms. I was amazed at how well it fitted him. I concluded that he was the same height and nearly the same size as my dear departed wife. This brought a pang to my heart, for I remember how she looked in that dress. I pulled myself back to the present. If he were wearing higher heels, the length would be perfect. In fact, he almost made for a better woman than a man.

He must have caught the approval in my look because his embarrassment eased visibly. Once again, I intervened to spare him any more. "Should we go to the studio and begin?"

This evening the lesson passed almost flawlessly. Again, he followed my lead with a surety and grace that did not seem possible from the man I had met only two weeks before. I had to admit that he had a gift for dancing, at least as a follower. What a shame that he had been born a man! If he had been a woman, it was possible that I could train such a dancer to become a champion. This evening, he accepted my offered praise and encouragement. He had dismissed such comments in the previous lessons. It was likely that he recognized the quality of truth in them this time.

He seemed to forget himself while in costume. Perhaps this was the root of his problem. Perhaps next week I could think of some means to help him to forget himself while he was in the male role. I put him through steps that spun the dress away from him or brushed the dress about his legs. The dreamy smile showed on his face. The question on my mind was whether he would even be willing to dance again except as a woman. And if not, was there anything wrong with that?

When the hour of dancing had passed, I called the lesson to an end. He looked disappointed but nodded his acceptance. He went back to the bedroom to change. This time, my wait was brief. He came out and presented me with a check that covered the 90 minutes that he had been in my flat. Naturally I protested but he insisted that I accept payment for the added time. I relented at this unexpected display of assertive generosity. I decided that he was acting out of appreciation rather than obligation. He quietly thanked me and left.

 

Chapter 3

As the new week progressed, I began to think about Dennis. I wondered about him and about my attitude towards him. Why did he derive so much pleasure from wearing a dress? Not merely pleasure, he acted like a completely different person. He suddenly gained confidence that he otherwise lacked. How could something as simple as a change of clothes alter a personality? I found this new person so much more intriguing and likable than the old one. Could it be possible that the Dennis in female dress was the real person and the Dennis in male dress the fantasy? I could not fathom these mysteries.

I am not well familiar with these matters. Is this an obsession? Or is fetish the proper word? I recalled that a fetish was primarily a sexual obsession. In this case, he seemed to enjoy pretending to be something other than who he was. Was this simply a form of recreation or did it hold more meaning for him? And if it was more serious to him, was it wrong or harmful?

This last question concerned me not as a judge over him (which I tried not to be). On a more practical level, if what he was doing was somehow wrong or harmful than I was an accomplice to it. I did not wish to serve that role even if the money was useful. The new twist to our lessons brought him pleasure. Can that be a bad thing? Certainly. To provide narcotics to another may bring him pleasure for a time, even as it destroys his body and his mind and his life. Yet I could not discern the harm in this instance. It would bring him great embarrassment to be found out, but I would never be indiscrete. Even as my mind insisted that there must be something wrong with all of this, I could not think of what it might be.

At last I decided to continue the lessons and decide later if I found reason to put an end to them. I only hoped that I could forestall any problems beforehand. I hoped for my own sake that this could continue without harm to anyone. I would need to find two pupils to replace the payments that he offered me. Oddly enough, I enjoyed dancing with him as a woman more than with any of my current female students!

*****

When the next Friday evening came, I was prepared for him. Once again, his face was blushing when I opened the door. I did not need to look down to know what shoes he wore. I made no comment or gesture of disapproval as I invited him in.

"Now then, would you like to continue where we left off last week, or would you like to learn the man's role in the Tango?"

"C-c-continue", he responded meekly.

"In that case, you know the way to the bedroom," I said as I motioned in that direction. I had previously put out the wig and laid out another dress on the bed, another floor-length gown with long sleeves. But I also had other surprises waiting for him. He entered the room and approached the bed. He looked quizzically first at the articles of clothing on the bed and then at me.

"I thought that you might wish to try some variations." I picked up one of the items off the bed. "You will better fill out a dress if you wear a bra." I held it up and then placed it back on the bed. "This was part of a set, so I brought this out too." I laid aching pair of panties beside the bra. "This item is not necessary for dancing, so I leave it to you whether you wish to wear it or not. This pile of pantyhose is not for your legs but as filler for the bra. You see, my wife was, how you say, 'well-endowed'. It may take a few of these to fill the bra cups. And finally I have these." I lifted the pair of shoes off the floor. "The shoes you used before are not truly suitable for dancing. These are more stylish and more feminine." The shoes were red to match the dress. They were narrow and pointed enough to be sensual but not uncomfortably so. The heels were notably higher than the previous pair but not high enough to endanger his balance.

"I leave you to ready yourself," I said as I closed the door of the bedroom.

I did not wait as long this time before I heard the loud clop-clopping of his footsteps on the hardwood floor. I thought to myself that I must teach him how to walk before I can teach him to dance. When he appeared, he looked even more like a woman with the padded bra and feminine shoes. There was still too much of a man about him, but I thought I might help there. First we must work on that walk.

"You look very elegant," I told him. "I decided that tonight we should focus not on dancing but on general movement as a woman. I can tell from the very sound of your steps that you have never walked in high heels before. Until you have practiced walking in them, it is not safe to dance in them." I took his hand and escorted him to the edge of the studio. "Men and women step very differently. Men plop their feet down hard and flat on either side of their body. It causes them to wobble and lumber forward. Men look awkward when you study their walk."

"Women glide as they walk. They place their feet in a line, one in front of the other. Their heads remain steady while their tails turn back and forth in a pleasing way. Women bend their ankles so that their footsteps fall gently, caressing the ground. A woman's walk is like poetry."

I stood aside from him. "Now, focus on these instructions and try to walk across the floor as a woman would walk".

He took a first, tentative step. Then he took more steps, some awkward, some loud, some with finesse. When he had crossed the floor, I asked him to return again in the same way. I suggested adjustments and offered encouragements as he walked along. After several passes, his walk appeared more feminine. But there was still much work to do.

"Now, I want you to walk across the floor as quietly as you can. Walk slowly and take small steps. See if you can contact the floor more gently."

Once again, the initial effort made him self-conscious and he forgot all that he had just learned. But with practice and many, many crossings of the floor, he regained his poise and found his steps. I was proud to note that he was improving rapidly.

"Now we will focus upon you hands and your arms. Men walk as you do, with their arms flailing limply from their bodies like dead things. Every part of a real woman is alive. Each part moves and articulates to varying degrees, depending on the woman. Do not hold your hands tight as in a fist. Allow your fingers to be free to feel the air about you. I cannot tell you how you should move, for each woman moves differently. Try different motions and see which feels most natural, most freeing."

He steeled himself briefly, and then began to walk. His arms did not move consciously at first. Next they began to move in all directions as he sought to find a true movement. The effect was comical to see, yet I noted with approval that his steps had not faltered. He was learning. As he passed me, he gave me an imploring look. I did not heed it. Instead, I turned my finger in the air and he turned around and repeated the crossing. The process was frustrating for him, but my confidence in him grew. Long after I lost count of his trips across the studio, he found his motion. All of his body moved in a gentle, feminine unison. He walked with his arms out from him slightly, the hands and fingers relaxed and open. The effect suited him.

When I was satisfied with the results, I brought him to the far side of the studio where the mirrors were mounted. I had him walk back and forth before the opposing mirrors and watch himself both from the front and the back. His smile registered his approval with the progress of the day.

Next, I had him practice the acts of sitting and rising. I explained some of the many ways that women sit and position their legs and what each way suggested. I was about to teach him turns when I realized how much time had passed. He had been with me over two hours now. Surely he was tired, but he did not show it. I suspected that he could have continued much longer, but I was running out of ideas. I am attuned to how people move, but I am not trained to teach a man how to behave as a woman.

Before he changed back into Dennis, I brought him an overnight bag. "If you would like, you may borrow the clothes and the wig for the week. It is good if you practice and the practice would be more fruitful if you wore proper attire. Further, you may wish to rent movies starring women you admire. Choose elegant, feminine women. Observe them closely and try to act and move as they do."

He came back out of the room in his own clothes, carrying the bag and a check. This check covered the two hours and more. I chose not to contest it.

Just before he left, I made another suggestion: "If you wish to become more serious about this process, you can come an hour earlier and stay for two hours. This will allow for more time to prepare before we begin the lessons. I will not ask you to pay me for the extra hour since it is not part of the lesson."

"I would love to come earlier. And of course I will pay you for the extra hour." His voice almost sounded like a woman's voice. It was uncanny how much he was changing. The voice sounded in my ears long after the door closed behind him.

   

Chapter 4

The following Friday, I had more surprises waiting for my most intriguing student. When he arrived at the earlier hour with the borrowed bag, I ushered him straight into the bedroom. On this occasion, I allowed him to choose his own dress. He chose a tight short-sleeved dress in black that ended above the knees and held it up for my approval. I thought about this for a moment.

"You may wear this one, but you will need to wear tights underneath or the hair on your legs will show."

He nodded and took the dress to the bed. I found a pair of black tights and showed him how they might be bunched up all the way to the toe so that they can be slid over the legs instead of pulled on by force. I placed them beside the dress. Next, I allowed him to choose a pair of shoes to match. The first pair he chose was entirely inappropriate for the novice that he was. The heels were quite high. He stroked them with his fingers lovingly.

"These shoes are perhaps too ambitious for you so soon," I suggested. "You may wish to find a pair more like those that you wore last week. He replaced the first pair of shoes and found a more conservative pair. These he placed beside the bed. While he chose clothing, I opened the travel bag, put away the dress and shoes and took out the wig, the underwear and the extra pantyhose.

"If you are ready, please get dressed. Before you put on the wig, please call me back in. I have more to show you." I left the room and closed the door. Again, my wait was brief before the door reopened. "I am ready," he said with the voice that was almost that of a woman.

When I entered the room, he looked unhappy. I guessed that he did not want to be seen in this unfinished state without the wig. Indeed, it looked very peculiar to see a man's face above a woman's body. "Do not be concerned," I said. "This part will take the most time but it is also the most important for your transformation into a woman."

I directed him to the chair in front of the dressing mirror. I gestured at the array of makeup bottles and tubes laid out before him. "I must apologize in advance because these colors may not suit you. My wife had a much darker complexion than your own." He nodded and then looked up at me expectantly. I pulled up a second chair and opened some of the containers. "Please observe closely so that you may learn to apply these yourself."

I started the applications of the many layers of makeup, explaining each step as I progressed. I will not detail those steps here. Women know more about these procedures than I. Men have no need to learn them. I had need to learned them myself to help my wife prepare for performances. Because of my limited experience, the final results were more dramatic than natural, but the results were pleasing nonetheless.

Until I started to apply eye makeup, I had not noticed the color of those eyes. They were green, as green as the sea. How could I have failed to notice such stunning eyes? It was because those eyes were always turned down, turned away from the sight of others. As I finished the mascara and shadowing around those lovely eyes, I thought that a man could fall in love with a woman with such deep, beautiful eyes. That is, if he were a woman.

After I finished the eyes and applied lipstick and gloss, I had him put on some costume jewelry in the form of a necklace, a few rings, some bangles and clip-on earrings. I took out a wig cap and showed him how to tuck all of his unruly locks safely beneath. As the final step, I brought forth a different wig. This one had long, luxurious auburn waves of hair. This wig was my wife's favorite. I asked him to stand and I demonstrated how he might put on a wig without disturbing the makeup. Holding the wig upside-down, I had him lean his head forward, and with the wig in place, throw the hair back over his shoulders.

With the hair thrown back, she looked in the mirror while I looked at her reflection. For, from this moment I no longer thought of this person as a "he". This was unmistakably a woman standing before me, a lovely woman. She surely felt the same way. Tears welled up in her eyes. "I am beautiful!" she said, not quite believing the face that she saw. Her voice had somehow become yet more feminine with the outward transformation.

"I think it is time to find a proper name for you," I suggested.

"I think you should name me since it was you that created me," she offered back.

I thought it best not to comment on that statement. I accepted the complement and thought about names. "Well, the simplest notion is to use 'Denise'".

She shook her head with the firmness of a woman who knows what she wants. "No, that is too much like the old one. I don't want any association with who I used to be. I want a new name. Something exotic sounding."

I nodded my approval. "In that case, let me think. In my country, a woman with eyes like yours would be named 'Esmeralda'. In this country, that name sounds too much like a cartoon character. Maybe we could name you 'Emerald'."

"I like that" she answered.

Her left hand was upon her breast in a gesture of continued disbelief. The gesture was very becoming. I took her right hand and lifted it to my lips and kissed it. "Emerald, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance."

She smiled and her lovely eyes turned down. Even with so much makeup, I could see the blush behind it. I felt flattered and charmed by it. Finally she found her voice. She turned to me and said "Thank you." She stood up and suddenly threw her arms around me in an embrace. She turned her head and whispered into my ear, "Thank you."

When we drew apart, tears were running down her face. "Take care that you do not ruin your mascara" I said. She laughed.

After she dried her eyes and we repaired her makeup, we returned to the studio. I asked her to demonstrate what she had practiced during the week. I was very proud of the progress that she made in her movement and deportment. If anyone else had been present but had not heard her voice, they would swear that she was a born woman.

We moved to the studio and began the Tango. She danced with a sensuous passion I had not felt with her before. The dance filled me with satisfaction. I had not danced so vigorously or so passionately in many years. Not since my dear wife was still strong enough to dance. We danced not as a teacher and a student, but as a man and a woman. We lost ourselves in the dance and continued late into the evening.

Finally, she paused and told me that she should go. This time, it was I who nodded my head with disappointment. She returned to the bedroom to clean off the makeup and change out of the clothes. And to change into a man who barely occupied the small space his body filled. It seemed unfair that such a vessel of light and life should be emptied again, but there was nothing to be done. At least she would live again on Friday nights.

I invited the man to take all of the clothes, the jewelry, the shoes and the makeup to practice during the week. Again, he was grateful and repaid it with a large check. This amount was disproportionately large and I protested it.

"You have done more for me than anyone has every done before. Please take the money. I only wish I had more to offer you than money."

With that comment, he stepped out of my flat and out of my life for another week. I knew that I would miss Emerald during that time.

  

Chapter 5

As the days dragged on toward Friday, I had no surprises left to prepare. Emerald's transformation had gone so far already. I did not know what more I could teach her to further this transformation along. Was it only a matter of weeks since I met the mousy Dennis? Stranger still, was it mere days since I first met the radiant Emerald? It seemed impossible that she should have suddenly come to life with such fullness at our last session. I felt certain that there were many hints of her presence before her debut. Surely, she was there all along but the unfortunate Dennis either did not know about her or suppressed that knowledge. I pondered these matters but I had no understanding to draw upon.

One morning, I visited the main library in town and found books that had some information that touched upon this mystery. They offered no solutions, but they did offer terms that helped me find better references. On return visits, I used a computer to search for information in the public sphere. I was overwhelmed by the quantity and diversity of information and opinions. How could so much be written by so many about any one topic? And about one as obscure as this?

I read many things. I read discussions about the differences between a "cross-dresser" and a "transvestite". This confused me because the words are identical, simply in different languages. I also learned about the term "transsexual". The word itself expressed a deeper change that resonated with the little that I knew of Emerald. In the end, I felt that I had no true answers. Only Emerald herself could answer my questions. I was now certain about one thing: I had done no wrong when I awoke Emerald. I firmly believed that the world was a better place with her in it.

Ever punctual, the knock came to my door on Friday the hour before the original lesson time. This evening, it was my turn to be surprised. Emerald stood at the door. It was a changed Emerald, and changed for the better.

"Emerald!" I stammered, "You look…"

I was at a loss for words. She smiled beautifully at me. She wore makeup but it was not the exaggerated look done by my poor efforts. Her look was entirely natural. Even her eyebrows were perfect, delicate and sensuous. I became enchanted by the green depths of her eyes. It was she who broke the spell.

"May I come in?"

I opened the door fully and ushered her in, my eyes never looking away from her face. On this occasion, I did not note to myself that she looked even more like a woman. It did not occur to me at that moment that she had ever been a man. My admiration was not for the success of an artful deception. It was for the beauty of an exceptional woman.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"Emerald, you are beautiful."

She responded with the customary blush and down-turned face and eyes. The effect made her all the more beautiful. "Thank you, Professor Jimenez." It was the first time that she had spoken my name. It delighted me to hear her speak it.

"Please," I said, "Call me Eduardo".

"Eduardo", she said trying my name upon her tongue. My delight increased.

I motioned toward the sofa in my study. "We have an extra hour that I did not anticipate. Please sit down." She sat with elegance and grace. "Would you like a glass of wine?" I asked.

"Please."

I poured us each a glass of red wine, offered one to her, and then sat beside her. "Tell me, how did this come to pass?"

She laughed. "Believe me, I did not figure this out myself. Thank you for teaching me about makeup. I hope you don't mind but I felt that I needed some additional help. I found a service that teaches people like me how to look more feminine. She taught me how to accent my natural coloring and sold me the appropriate makeup."

"Indeed," I said, "it is fortuitous that such services exist. Did you just now come from this service?"

"Oh no," she answered. "That was last weekend. I did myself up tonight. I've been practicing every night."

"I am grateful that you have found this service. I am sorry that my own efforts were inadequate. Your beauty deserves proper attention."

"Please don't apologize. Last Friday was one of the most important nights of my life."

"I thank you for this kindness," I said. I lifted my glass. "Shall we drink to the new Emerald?"

She blushed again. Her face turned down but this time her eyes remained on me. Were I not a gentleman, I might choose to deliberately embarrass her that I might see that look again.

She lifted her glass. "To Emerald."

"May she live long and well" I added. We drank.

*****

We spoke for a long time that evening. I heard her speak more words that evening than all our previous Fridays combined. It was not until later that I realized that I never once heard the slightest hint of a stutter. Emerald had found her voice and she was becoming an articulate woman.

I invited her to change into any attire that she chose. When she emerged, she wore a short, sleeveless green dress. She also wore sheer nylons. It was not lost on me that she had shaved her legs. I also noticed that she had shaved her arms and under them as well.

We danced as we had before. I noted yet more improvement in her poise, her style and her response to my lead. Since she told me that she spent so much time in practice with makeup, I assumed that she had not time enough to practice the dance. Beyond question, she was a natural dancer. When our last dance was finished, I made a pronouncement.

"Emerald, you are a gifted dancer. If it were possible, I would ask you to become my partner in the Tango. We would train full time for competitions. It has been many years, but I believe I could dance again. Alas, that I must give lessons at night to pay the rent and you must work in the day."

"Do you really mean that?" she asked in wonder.

"Of course," I replied. "I never say anything that I do not mean."

"I am honored." She retrieved her purse and took out her checkbook. I insisted that she only pay for the time of the lesson itself. I felt bad to accept money at all. She asked if she might leave wearing the clothes that she arrived in. I agreed, of course, and offered that she take a change of clothes. She disappeared into the bedroom and changed back into the black dress. She wore black nylons instead of black tights. She carried a small bag with the extra clothes.

"If you do not require extra time to prepare, perhaps next week you can come the extra hour earlier and I will make you dinner?" I offered.

She smiled. "I would love to."

After she left, I had much to think about. I already missed her and began to plan for our meal together. I did not know it yet, but I would never see the face of the unfortunate Dennis again.

  

Chapter 6

It was during the following week that I first began to express serious doubts about the situation. It was not what one might think. I did not care that Emerald had been a man. In fact, she was still one to everyone but me. This was an issue that concerned the past. There were many complications from this, it is true, but all potential relationships bring complications.

There were two issues that concerned me. First, there was the relationship between a teacher and his student, especially if they are of disparate ages. I always tried to keep a professional distance with my students, especially those that I was attracted to. Until now, this distance had not been crossed. But sometimes Fate has a way of narrowing the distances that we intend to maintain.

Emerald was quickly becoming my first and only exception to every established rule. This was hardly surprising. She was exceptional in every sense of the word. My previous professional and personal rules simply did not apply to her.

Yes, we are consenting adults, fully responsible for our own decisions. Yet I feared that I may somehow take advantage of Emerald. After all, I am the first man that she has known as a woman. I played a role in her birth. Perhaps she may become attached to me from naiveté or from gratitude. I did not want her affection under such circumstances.

The other issue that concerned me was not tied to Emerald, at least not directly. I felt guilty on behalf of my beloved, departed wife. For the first time in the years since her death, I thought about another woman more than I thought of her. I feared that I somehow betrayed her memory. Were she able to speak to me now, she would probably tell me that this was ridiculous. She always lived in the present and savored each moment of life. She would probably insist that I get beyond my grief and move on to someone else. Knowing this did not fully ease my conscience.

In so many ways, Emerald reminded me of the Maria of twenty years ago. Granted, Maria had a fearsome temper that Emerald did not have (at least, I hoped as much!). But so much of the positive of each was shared between them. Was it is possible that I unconsciously influenced Emerald to be like Maria? I could not imagine how this might happen. I did not really believe that I shaped Emerald. She was unfolding on her own. More likely, my attraction was to the qualities that the two women shared.

In the end, I decided that I worried and thought too much about this. In all ways, it appeared to be a good thing. If there was a hidden problem, we would face it when needed. There was no reason to struggle with problems that may not exist. There are too many wonderful things to enjoy in life to worry whether we have the right to enjoy them.

*****

I planned to make an Argentine meal for Emerald. I doubted that she had tasted this cuisine before. Few Americans have. In the end, I did not have time to locate the proper ingredients. I prepared a Spanish meal instead. I happened to have a good Spanish wine to accompany this.

When Emerald saw the table she was very impressed. "This all smells so wonderful! What are these dishes called?"

"The big pan is called paella. I hope you enjoy seafood." She nodded her head fervently. "And these small dishes are called tapas," I continued. "They are a kind of appetizers."

"I have always wanted to try Argentina food!" she remarked.

I did not have the heart to correct her. I had already suspected that she was not an accomplished cook. I now suspected that she was not an accomplished diner. That will change, I told myself.

During dinner and much wine, we spoke about our lives. She asked me about my upbringing in Buenos Aires, my dance competitions there and how they allowed me first to travel and then to immigrate to the United States. I also spoke briefly about my late wife, how we met, how she lived and how she died. Emerald was kind enough to refrain from asking for too many details.

Afterward, I dared asked her about her life. She thought briefly and then answered me.

"I would like to tell you that my life was ordinary and boring but that would not be true. To start with, I was a single child who always felt alone and different from everyone else. I had no idea why, so I figured that something was wrong with me. Maybe when you're older you come to understand these things. Maybe you can even learn to appreciate the value of being different. But when you're a kid, all you can see are the differences and the hurt that they cause.

"I wasn't deeply unhappy then, and maybe things would have turned out okay. But it is impossible to say. My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was only 14."

"That is terrible!" I said.

"Yes it was. It really messed me up. Maybe some good can come out of it somehow, but I never could figure out what. I had no other relatives to go to, so I lived with my uncle for the rest of my childhood. He made me feel worthless and ungrateful. He acted like the inconvenience of my presence and even my parent's death was somehow my fault.

"Aside from a lot of verbal abuse, he pretty much left me to fend for myself. And this is good considering the kind of man my uncle was. I'd hate to think of what would've happened if I looked like this back then," she said, sweeping her fingertips down her figure. "I would've been in serious trouble. Instead, I was just completely alone."

"How did you manage being so alone?"

"I guess I spent most of my free time daydreaming. You know, living in a fantasy world that I created. I had adventures with imaginary friends and I told myself stories to cheer myself up."

"Did the knight on the white horse come to save you in these stories?" I asked.

She gave a broken smile. "Not exactly. But that would've been nice. They were just dumb stories that a child would think up."

"I do not believe that they were 'dumb' or even that they were mere entertainment. I imagine that they contained the hopes and dreams that were denied to you in life."

"Yeah. I never really had much to hope in back then. Or even later. Until recently, that is. Anyway, around that time, I started doing really badly in school. It just didn't seem to matter. It is hard to plan for the future if you don't really believe you have one. My uncle didn't even notice.

"My life slowly slid downhill until my junior year of high school. I had an amazing math teacher who woke something up in me. For the first time, I started to excel in something. She encouraged me to do advanced work on my own. Then she loaned me an old school computer that no one was using. That's when I really took off. I got books from the library and taught myself how to program. I started writing math programs for my teacher to use in class and she used them. It was the first time I ever felt useful. I sometimes think my teacher saved my life. I don't think I could've held out much longer the way I was before I met her."

"I am most grateful to your teacher," I remarked.

"Yeah, me too. She changed everything in my life. I now had a reason to do well in school. I wanted to get into college and become a computer programmer. Since I didn't really have any friends or family, I had lots of free time. I turned around my grades and got mostly A's by the time I graduated. I did not have the track record to get into a good school, but then I didn't have the money either. I went to a local community college for a while. I started doing free-lance programming to earn some money. I must have been good at it because I earned enough to move out of my uncle's house and into a room that I shared with a guy I didn't really like. I did well in school and managed to transfer into a decent college and finish my degree.

"I got lots of job offers when I finished college. I ended up here because this is where they offered the most money. I wasn't attached to anyplace, so it didn't really matter where I went. But nobody told me that it was so expensive to live here! I must be good at programming because they keep giving me promotions and more money. I don't much care about money so I just stash it away in investments. And that's where my life was at, just working a lot with nothing much to show for it."

I made an observation. "You still seem skeptical that anyone should think well of you. You are so much more than you think. There is a great distance between the lowly person that you think yourself to be and the person that you are. There is yet another distance between who you are now and what you may become."

She blushed, of course. "Thank you for saying that. I wish I could believe it."

"How can you not believe it?" I asked. "In your former life, everything in your life was gray. You acted small and craven, like a mouse. It is no wonder that others would treat you as one. It was easy for you to be deceived that you had no worth. But even then it was never true.

"Now, you are alive and brilliant and full of color. You are a very gifted dancer. You have the most potential of any woman I have trained, apart from my Maria. You were always more than a computer programmer. I am convinced that you were always the splendid Emerald. You just did not know it until recently."

She wiped tears away from her eyes. "I don't know what to say. You always make me feel so special. No one has ever really cared about me, let alone treated me as special. Well, I guess that one teacher did. But none of my family or whatever friends I had over the years thought I was special. We need to talk about something else of I'm going to break down right here."

"I am sorry to make you cry. Of course I did not intend this."

She laughed. "You don't need to apologize for saying such wonderful things about me! You apologize for the strangest things. But I like that. I'm used to being treated badly but I'm not used to people apologizing afterwards. It is funny that the one person who has always treated me well and never done me wrong is also the one who is always apologizing to me!"

"In that case, I will not apologize for apologizing."

She laughed again. "Well, I guess that's my life in a nutshell. A lonely, confused nerd, turned dancer. Computer programming used to be my whole life. Learning to dance the Tango doubled the scope of my life by itself. But you have added even more to my life than both together. Like you said, for the first time ever I feel like I'm alive, like I'm living my own life instead of just watching others live theirs.

I smiled at her. "It fills me with pleasure to see such life in you. I hope that your love for life always increases."

Smiling back at me, she reached over and squeezed my hand. We then spoke of other things, none serious. We had enjoyed the gifts of the words each had for the other. Now we enjoyed the good food and wine. Most of all, we enjoyed the simple but delightful company.

After dinner we did not have a lesson. We danced. I gave her no words of instruction or encouragement. I did not stop to repeat any moves. I did not show her new techniques. I did not wish to do anything that would distract us from the dance itself. I led and Emerald followed my lead. We danced as a man and a woman acting as one.

As the last set of songs ended, I dipped her deeply back and allowed her to hang in the air for a moment. Before I raised her up again, I did something I did not plan to do. I bent down and kissed her. She returned the kiss, softly and gently. A hundred sensations and emotions flooded my brain at once, fighting for dominance. In the confusion of the fight, I found I could ignore them all and simply kiss Emerald.

We stopped dancing after this and did not speak of it afterward. It would break the spell that hung upon us. She helped me clean up in the kitchen, exchanging pleasantries throughout. She packed more clothes for the week. Everything seemed as it was before. Yet in the doorway after our final farewells, she rose up on her toes and kissed me. The kiss was more affectionate than passionate. But she kissed me on the lips.

  

  

  

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