The Tontine Slip

by Paula Mortenson

 

The tontine was agreed between the four of us while we were enjoying a meal in an Indian restaurant getting happily drunk. In case you wonder a tontine is a bet between a group with the survivor scooping the pool. Normally the survivor means exactly that, the one who lives the longest but in our peculiar circumstances the bet was very different.

It all began a year or so ago when we met for the first time at a photo shoot for a TV magazine and a friendship blossomed between us. That day had, for me, been an exciting first glimpse into a world I had previously only dreamed about. Each of us came from entirely different backgrounds. Initially our only common interest had been in femininity and that we were all closet TVs. As time passed and our friendship developed we exchanged Christmas and birthday cards, in our male personas and even occasionally met socially. My wife and I (she was then blissfully ignorant of my clandestine hobby) even met Andrew (otherwise Andrea) and his wife while we were passing through London. Each September and March we, the girls, gathered for a "girls' night out" at a restaurant in Manchester, the scene of our first meeting.

For me it was relatively easy to explain my absences from home as I travelled the country selling computer systems. An extra night away in glorious femininity became a regular weekly event and as my confidence grew I began to take my office days, when I arranged appointments and pursued leads, in an understanding country hotel acting literally as my own secretary. I finally plucked up courage to venture forth as Gaynor and then there was no holding me back. Gaynor adored shopping whether just browsing or spending and spent much of her days in one shopping mall or another, fielding my calls and making appointments. I often spoke with my blissfully ignorant wife while I was in a dress shop in some far off town and more than once got funny looks as I undertook to mow the lawn or service her car when I returned home.

The photo session had marked a change in my own life as it had been the first time I had ever met and talked with like minded people. Andrew, who my wife and I had met in London, was a high powered lawyer who's wife though not totally approving of his hobby confessed she enjoyed an occasional romp with Andrea. To see him in his grey business suit, a bulky, sober professional man was in complete contrast to the flamboyant, bubbly Andrea who delighted in masses of petticoats beneath bright gypsy style skirts and tops. His wife had given me a heart stopping moment at our London meal when for second she had forgotten my own wife was unaware of our connection but she covered her mistake quickly. The subject never came up at home so I presumed we had got away with it. That moment was to return to haunt me later but in a very peculiar manner.

In total contrast to Andrew was Alan. He was a high flying stock trader on the New York Stock Exchange originally from Scotland. I never did discover whether he was married or exactly his sexual orientation, not that it mattered. None of us ever discussed sex we purely revelled in femininity at our half yearly meetings. Alan was noisy, brash and very confident but Lana; his female manifestation was a mousy haired, shy and bespectacled secretary girl who dressed fashionably but discreetly. She always cringed with embarrassment when Tracey, a bricklayer from Birmingham whirled into the restaurant. Tracey, Tim, favoured the exotic tarty look and had the figure and looks to create a stir in any group of men. She loved making an entrance in seemingly ever skimpier and scandalous outfits, turning every head in the establishment. Frequently it was her who stammering lads propositioned at our table, asking for a date. She'd laugh them off with an appropriately outrageous quip, usually reducing us to hysterical giggles by suggesting we were a group of lesbians or, once, to our horror claiming we were a table of TVs. It was a rule amongst us which probably cemented our friendship that our depictions of femininity should be as realistic as possible and we should always stay in our female personas. It was a tribute to our efforts that the lad just thought he was just being sent up. Now if Andrea had spoken we might have been in trouble but Tracey's Brummie accent and voice were indistinguishable from the real thing. Men found her habit of wearing elbow length gloves alluring but in reality it was to disguise the bricklayers' hands beneath.

At our first celebratory dinner, immediately following the photo shoot, Lana was excited about the day but her visit to England had been to investigate some company on the verge of a major breakthrough. In the excitement of the evening we each chipped in a few pounds to buy shares at what turned out to be a ridiculously low price. As the evening wore on and a combination of the drink and excitement made us giddy and silly the shares we had agreed to buy were a central theme of our conversation. Who proposed the tontine is long forgotten but we made increasingly ridiculous suggestions for the qualification of the winner. Outliving the others appealed to none of us. That was likely to take too long. Drunkenly we agreed we should share any income until one of us or the first of us achieved a particular goal.

Going out dressed as a female had now been achieved by all of us (this was my first time out as Gaynor). It just developed from there. It was to be the chop, snip better understood as being totally female. If one of us chose to become fully female, she (as she surely would be then) would scoop the pool. Lana reported at each of our subsequent nights out on the progress of our investment. Amidst all the technical jargon it was apparent we had hit the jackpot. At the first reunion dinner our shares had increased ten fold, at the second a hundred fold and that was just the beginning. The dinners now cost us nothing, paid for from the dividends and there was each six months an increasingly substantial cheque which all of us regarded as being our dress allowances. Except that the allowance after two years was sufficient not only to fulfil our individual needs but could have furnished a wardrobe fit for even the most fashion conscious of women and left plenty over for any amount of visits to hairdressers and beauticians.

Gaynor now occupied at least three days of every week, for me. The dividends had paid for a small flat where she lived whilst away from home. My downfall came with my thirtieth birthday. I had spent the day shopping and unusually my wife was due to join me at a hotel I still used occasionally to celebrate. A battle waged between Gaynor who was searching desperately for the right dress for the forthcoming girls' reunion and the dutiful husband longing to be waiting expectantly for his wife at the end of her journey. What I hadn't counted on was my wife's keenness to surprise me by arriving early at the hotel.

Gaynor was an hour later than she should have been arriving back at the hotel and my wife was two hours earlier than expected. Consequently instead of Gaynor being a distant memory on my wife's arrival we walked into the hotel reception at precisely the same moment. My, or rather Gaynor's only course of action was to ask for the key to my room. The staff were quite used to my varying appearance and handed over the key without question. Unfortunately, the particular receptionist, that afternoon hadn't understood we were one person. She knew there was a secret but thought we were lovers meeting during working hours and consequently kept on referring to Gaynor as my friend to my wife.

Matters were further confused by my wife vaguely recognising the woman who had strolled into the hotel at the same time as her. I suppose most of us model ourselves on our own particular vision of femininity. I had had no particular style in mind but as Gaynor had developed I had admired Andrew's wife's hairstyle and fashion sense and had found they suited me.

I had hardly got to my room, in a complete panic and was in the process of stripping to my undies to remove make up and to take a bath when the door flew open. Having recognised who she thought was Andrew's wife heading to her husband's bedroom she had gone in search of the duty manager, who had not seen me arrive and demanded a pass key. Since she was expected he had no reason not to admit her. My penchant for very feminine underwear further misled my wife who immediately assumed she was confronting her husband's lover. I never got a word in as she, in very unladylike language proceeded to accuse Gaynor of being, well let's just say whore, tart, bitch and cow featured strongly in her monologue. As well as references to the dinner party in London where Gill, Andrew's wife, had forgotten I was in the closet and had jokingly referred to my interest in her underwear. It was apparent my wife had not missed her slip and jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Having run out of insults and declaring it was beneath her dignity to shred Gaynor's face but that she would deliver a painful kicking, exactly where it would hurt the most to her unfaithful, soon to be ex husband if she ever saw him again she stormed out. Her parting shot was that I was welcome to him, he wasn't any good in bed and she'd had to get It elsewhere for years.

I sat, drained and exhausted in shock. It isn't every day of the week you are accused of being your own lover and what she had taken for guilty silence had been a fear she would learn a far worse truth if I spoke. I recovered sufficiently to realise I ought to warn Andrew and his wife of the vengeful female who might just decide to extract retribution on whom she thought was her husband's lover. Andrew was away from his office but I had his home number and it was with considerable trepidation that I confessed the events of the afternoon to his wife, Gill.

I was surprised by Gill's calmness contrasting with my own rising panic. Her invitation to travel down to London for a longer chat was an even greater shock until she explained that she and Andrew had been enjoying a "girlie afternoon", together. Andrew's intervention in the conversation finally persuaded me to join them. His cold professional tones sent shivers down my spine as he reminded me I now faced a messy divorce from a vengeful wife and that they were involved. My wife's assumption I was having an affair with Gill could lead to us featuring in lurid headlines in the newspapers. By this time I was almost in tears and I was reduced to pleading with them for help and advice. I badly needed a friendly face and if their request I visited them as Gaynor was the only condition I was more than happy to comply.

The new receptionist and duty manager could not apologise enough as I checked out of the hotel but I brushed their excuses to one side in my anxiety to drive the 200 miles to London. I had now begun to understand my actions of the past months and my increasing commitment to Gaynor had been a recipe for disaster. The three or more days a week I had spent in my female personality had been catastrophe waiting to happen as far as my personal life had been concerned. Driving towards the motorway I suddenly realised I was so immersed in my feminine role I had not even given a second thought to setting off as Gaynor. Nor had I even worn any male clothing since Tuesday evening, it then being Friday. As I drove on I began to understand the longer I spent as Gaynor the more comfortable I became and equally the more uncomfortable I felt when I was forced to make the transformation back to masculinity.

The journey was uneventful. In the heavy Friday evening traffic into London I was just another woman returning home from a working week away, perhaps to a husband or boyfriend. Except in my case, I discovered to my own surprise, that was a forlorn hope. Gill and, surprisingly Andrea greeted me as I drew up in front of their splendid home.

Gill stared, opened mouthed at me as I approached. "Andy told me how much you'd modelled yourself on me but I'd never realised until now. We could be sisters." As the evening passed Gill quizzed me about clothes, what I had been up to and my feelings before allowing Andrew into the conversation to bring us down to earth with mention of my potentially complicated matrimonial situation. As Gill and I had talked I had sensed Andrew watching our every move on the fringes but not part of our discussion, in some mysterious way excluded from our girlie talk. His intervention into our cosy chat send chills running down my spine once again. By the time he had finished speaking I had agreed to use his services to bring my marriage to as discrete an end as possible. When I hesitantly enquired about his fees he smiled for the first time that evening. His assumption that I would claim the tontine left me in stunned silence. It could pay his fees many times over.

My vulnerability came home to me. My harmless secret hobby had taken my life over and roller coasted me to the brink of......what? Though I faced exposure and ruin I was, if I claimed the tontine, secure but more than that. A sense of inner contentment had blossomed within me. Gill smiled and began to quiz me again but this time leading me on to plan for the future.

I've just bade farewell to Gill and Andy. It was good to see them after such a long time but I've got me own friends now who know little of my former existence. I think I'll change into that bikini I bought when I went into town after I had seen them off at the airport and lie by my pool this afternoon. If I want to wear such skimpy bikini bottoms in public in future I'll have to ask the beautician whether she does bikini lines. If you ever come to St Martin do look me up, won't you? I've got a lovely villa just on the border between the Dutch and the French territories. I decided to leave England after the scandal of the divorce and come to the Caribbean. No one knew me here and, anyway, the Dutch are so understanding about girls like me who started out as boys. When I went to our last girls' night to claim my winnings I made sure the others got a share though I don't think any of them are going to follow in my footsteps. Fairs, fair. I've ended up with everything a girl could ask for!

 

Paula Mortenson 1997

  

  

  

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