Tanya Finds a Girlfriend

by Tanya Verity

 

As Carlo went home that evening to his empty flat, he reflected on the events of the previous few weeks. The new owner, Tanya, seemed to be very nice, and so attractive too, in a fairly stern sort of way. The fact that Mrs. Foster had decided to sell had not really been a surprise, but it had been unsettling nonetheless. Carlo had fallen into an easy, unchallenging routine since the death of his mother, and the work in the shop had not only provided sufficient income to pay his bills, but had also been the focus of his growing obsession with female clothing and all the things that went with it.

Now that he thought about it, he had changed the shop dramatically from the family shoe shop he had started to work for seven years before. Though the changes had been gradual, sometimes almost imperceptible, the overall difference was immense. Since the death of Mr Foster, there had been some change almost every week, almost always initiated by Carlo. Now the shop was a chic ladies boutique, still focussing mainly on footwear and hosiery, but also with a distinct line in ladies dresses, and separates, and the kind of upmarket make-up and accessories that weren't available elsewhere locally, otherwise requiring a trip into Manchester.

He sighed as he thought of the amount of stock he had bought for himself, and wondered again if his always unseen "girlfriend" would have been sufficient an invention to satisfy Mr Foster had he still been around. Still, he had always been scrupulously honest with his staff purchases. Even with the discounts, Mrs Foster had done well out of him, as he had dipped into the funds left him by his mother to satisfy his thirst for all the feminine items he had purchased.

Christmas Eve shouldn't be a time for going home alone, he thought, stepping off the bus to face the fine cold drizzle misting the still air in his street. Not that it bothered him. He smiled then, thinking how anyone visiting him that evening would get a real shock. He bore his Christmas presents in a couple of capacious carrier bags, and he was going to give them to Carol as soon as he got himself ready this evening.

Carol was Carlo's girlfriend. More correctly, Carol was the girlfriend Carlo would have had, if he had a girlfriend. Even more accurately, Carol was the girlfriend Carlo would have liked to be, if he could be someone else's girlfriend.

Carlo was a transvestite. Aged twenty-two, and a virgin, for the past nine years he had had a fascination for all things feminine. This was fostered initially by his mother's style and flair with clothes and make up, and by the lonely nights at home when she was out with yet another boyfriend, and later by his exploration of the vast wardrobe left after her untimely death.

He dropped his bags and locked the flat door, flicking on the light in his lobby.

Moving with practised ease, he walked through the flat, making coffee and a sandwich, putting away his purchases. On these evenings, most evenings in fact, he used Carol's bedroom, separate and entirely different from Carlo's. Tonight was no exception, and it was Carol's bedroom that was the focus of his attention.

The flat was decorated very plainly, the kind of plain that took a lot of money – and taste –

to achieve. That had been his mother's doing. The source of her money had always been a mystery to Carlo, and he had given up wondering. During the many meetings with solicitors after his mother's death, he had learned only enough to confirm what he had suspected, that Mother's family was obviously very wealthy. They had gone to great lengths to ensure that, while she and Carlo were amply provided for, that there would never be any directly traceable route to the money. The legal types had hinted that it was Carlo's illegitimate birth (to an English father?) that had caused the rift. Whatever, Carlo thought, it meant he never had to worry about money again, and had a protected permanent income, whatever happened.

He walked naked from his bedroom, plain, almost Spartan. Throwing open the door to Carol's bedroom, he swelled with pride. This room was in marked contrast to the rest of the flat, and had been all his doing. The dressing table, the wardrobes, two, both large doubles, the chests of drawers, three, all tall, were finished in the cream with gold filigree much loved by older middle class Italians, (some reverting to type there perhaps, Carlo had often mused). The bed was sumptuously appointed, with delicate silken drapes in pale gold and huge, similarly covered, plump pillows and cushions. Across it was strewn a richly lacy black negligee, a matching robe that supported even more flounces and layers of foamy lace. A pair of red high wedge-heeled, marabou-trimmed mules lay discarded on the floor alongside.

Pulling on the lacy black confection of a robe, and slipping his scarlet varnished toes into the open-toed mules, Carol – for already it was she – swayed out of the room to run a bath. A little later, already hairless again below the neck, her depilation routine completed for another few days, she slid into the deeply perfumed water and began reflecting again on the last few weeks.

That he – Carlo – had dithered regarding the offer to purchase the shop annoyed her now somewhat. They had the money after all, and had virtually been running it alone for several years now. Carlo didn't trust her though, to stay in the background, under control. Carol could so easily take over. Carlo had dreamed about THAT enough times! If only she looked a bit more real, a bit more believable, so she could pass, as she now knew the expression to be. Then again, there were so many regular customers, she could never come out and take over. Most of them tolerated a male in the shop, though there had been some embarrassing moments until he had a good changing booth fitted. But Carlo turning into Carol overnight would cost the business, they both knew.

No, better by far this Mrs. Verity, this Tanya, should buy the shop. She had already made it plain Carlo's employment was secure. Carol remembered the moment and blushed involuntarily. Mrs Verity had been talking to him in the little room they jokingly called the office. As she re-assured him about his prospects, she had reached out, impetuously perhaps, and squeezed his thigh. He had been wearing a teddy with suspenders, fully-fashioned nylons and lacy frou-frou panties that day. He always took great pains to ensure nothing showed from under his suit, but hadn't allowed for someone – anyone, least of all his new female boss – touching his upper thigh!

Had she noticed the ridge of the deeply ruffled suspender under her palm? Or the way the trouser leg slipped and slid across the glossy surface of the stocking? She had not shown a flicker. Carol remembered looking instantly into her eyes. No, she hadn't noticed, and it had been only the lightest, momentary touch. He had not made that mistake again. Restricting himself to normal silk or satin panties under the suit from then on, with a minimum of lace. And no slips or chemises. Certainly no brassieres, even on these winter days when he had customarily hidden one by wearing a thick knit jersey. Still, there were compensations. This Mrs Verity was an exceptionally attractive woman. She was striking, to say the least. Carol knew she must be over six feet tall in her stockinged feet. Several inches taller than her. And she wasn't shy about her shoes either. Carol loved shoes. One of the first things she noticed about women. She hated that women, who all had the natural attributes she longed for, wasted them. Crummy, scruffy shoes, dowdy clothes, no make up, hair a mess. Mrs Verity – Tanya, she had several times insisted – she wasn't like that. Carlo had met her perhaps a dozen times now. Always immaculately turned out. Reminding him of one of those cosmetic consultants on the counters of a big store in Manchester or somewhere. LOTS of make up, obviously extremely expensive make-up, but perfectly applied, and perfectly matched for coloration. Eyelashes extremely long, curled and thick but smoothly separated with rich mascara. Brows severely but expertly plucked, displaying that high arching curve Carol so longed to have the nerve to form on her own. Cheekbones – such cheekbones! – subtly blushed. Plump, luxurious and sensual lips thick with effortless gloss. Her glossy, deep chestnut hair, well beyond collar length, either loosely tousled in a casual cloud, or pulled more severely, into a fat French pleat at the back, loose tendrils drawing the eye to her always bejewelled ears, and elegant neck.

Yes, she liked her shoes as well, did Tanya. Carol had never seen her in any footwear without a high heel, despite her height. She was obviously of the "If you've got it, flaunt it" school of thought on height as well as on figure, looks and mostly everything actually! She had worn everything, strappy sandals, black patent ankle boots, court shoes Carlo could have sworn were Jimmy Choo, everything. Still, it stands to reason, Carol thought, idly soaping a smooth, tanned calf; it was love of shoes that kept him at the shop, why not Tanya too? Carol suspected she had as many, if not more shoes herself. Fifty-seven pairs at the last count, and never a sole had touched a pavement or street. She longed to be able to walk outdoors in them with the easy self-assurance of a woman like Mrs Verity.

She couldn't get the image of her, at the moment she first walked into the shop, out of her mind. It had been a mild morning for a northern England November, when she had appeared. This gorgeous woman, certainly no more than thirty years of age, had walked in wearing one of those lightweight belted Macs that are habitually covered with a myriad of wrinkles. It was beige in colour, open, over a navy blue formal skirt suit. When she had taken the Mac off, Carlo had seen that the short-sleeved jacket was really a bolero, without lapels, and wide cut at it's deep bustline, showing only a fairly flimsy lace edged chemise below. Her generous and tanned cleavage, hinting at an expensively fitted brassiere, showed at the slightest movement, for anyone who cared to look. Her slender arms, unadorned, save an understated stainless steel Rolex on her left wrist, and wedding and engagement rings on the same hand, were tanned and blemish free. The skirt was severely belted by a wide, elasticated belt similar to those Carlo had seen nurses wearing, but deeper, at about five inches. It accentuated the woman's tiny waist, in turn serving only to stress her gorgeously proportioned derriere. The skirt, slit a couple of inches at the rear, ended, very tight, a hobbling three inches or so above the knee – such knees! – forcing the short, one-in-front-of-the-other leg movements that Carol practised herself so fervently at home. The way her backside rolled so effortlessly and sexily when he watched her leave that day, would be on Carol's mind for a long, long time. Thirty-eight or nine, twenty-three, thirty-seven, he reckoned. God! Was Carol falling in love?!

Leaving the bath and drying herself, Carol applied a light dusting of perfumed talc, before slipping on the mules once more, donning her robe, and returning to her boudoir. Christmas Eve, a Thursday, and no one to see, nothing she had to do, until Tuesday. She had done all the shopping, had plenty of provisions, and intended to have an entirely "girlie" time over the four days holiday, without stepping outside once! When Carlo went back to work, it would be with Tanya as his new boss.

She was awfully young to be a widow. She had told him. When she explained why she was looking for a business. Another business actually. She already ran a highly lucrative recruitment agency apparently. He wondered whether it was her own effort that had built it, or her late husband's. He sat at the dressing table, running the stockings – that same pair he had been wearing that day – through his fingers, finding the seams, pulling the seductive silkiness up his newly moisturised legs.

She needed to keep busy, and the agency ran itself. He concluded it had been the husband's thing. He was jealous. I AM getting interested in this woman. He must have been some guy. They must have been very much in love. Dead three years, she still feels it, obviously. Needs the distraction, not the money. She said she had been in as a customer a few times. He didn't remember, and knew he would have remembered. He wondered what she'd think if she knew when she'd been in the shop, he'd probably been in Manchester, his day off, searching for some item made for a man who wants to dress as a woman. It would disgust her, he thought, taking padded bra and matching thong panties from the top drawer of the dresser. Just forget it babes, he thought, she's not interested in a creep like you. Maybe, IF Carol wasn't around. You're younger, sure, but good- looking, bright, and interested in the same things perhaps, too.

Disconcerting how she always looked so deep in his eyes. He sometimes wondered if she'd spotted a bit of make-up he'd missed. He still wasn't great with make-up.

It was like she was reading his mind. She commented on his ponytail too. He'd been growing his hair since his mother died. It was long now, very long. He wished he had the nerve to get it cut and styled, so as to be entirely feminine when he wanted.

Carol sighed again. No, Tanya wouldn't be interested in a cheap transvestite like her. She would just have to become one of her fantasies. That would be good actually, because the Carlo in Carol was finding it a little disturbing that so many of their fantasies, the masturbatory ones, seemed to centre on men these days. Carlo may have been a virgin, but he was fairly sure he was a heterosexual virgin. But this train of thought always confused them both too. If Carol was as heterosexual as Carlo, wouldn't that mean Carol should desire men?

This succession of thoughts had taken Carol almost unconsciously through the well-practised routine of backcombing and lacquering her brushed out hair, in what she now realised was a fairly good approximation of Mrs Verity's "casual" look, as Carol had dubbed it. A light touch of make-up had been applied, and her fingers trembled as she slithered into the yellow Lycra mini-dress she had bought in town at lunchtime. She turned to admire the effect in the full length mirror, and was trying to decide what shoes to pair with this new, gorgeous acquisition, when, startled, she heard the insistent buzz of the entry-phone. Carol cursed in a fairly masculine sort of way, knowing it would be another visitor for that business type on the second floor, who seemed to have given the whole world his address – wrongly! Slipping the nearest footwear, the red mules, on to her stockinged feet, she marched to the door where the receiver was bracketed to the wall. "Yes?" she snapped, "who are you after?"

Carol's knees buckled when she heard the clear and recognisable voice say, "It's Tanya, Carlo, you'd better let me in, we have a lot to talk about, and it's raining out here!"

  

  

  

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