A Town Called Hope                      by: Anne O’Nonymous

 

Part One: Taking Leave.

There are many factories on the east coast, once belching huge clouds of dust-laden smoke polluting the skies over our cities. Now, they pollute in a far more subtle way. People labor in these factories producing the goods we use each day, and there are no heroes here, just people working, trying to make a decent living.

In one such factory, there was a young man: Tom Morrison, a college grad. It was funny to see an educated man laboring with high school grads, but when labor is tight, you take whatever you can get. This particular plant made aluminum parts for chairs, storm windows, and sundry items.

Tom stopped for a drink of water, looked around at his fellow workers. He was 5’6", and weighed 145--puny compared to most of them, and felt like he was among primitives--he just did not fit in. They talked sports, girls, rock music, girls, and getting laid by someone other than their wife. He liked classical music, art museums, and, most of all, wanting to meet a nice girl and knowing her for herself, what she liked and wanted.

He started thinking about some of them: Joey "Shakey" Thomas, married, sends his paycheck home via mail, he still doesn’t know how much he makes in a week--gets a $5. allowance from wife each day, and has to account for each penny! Will "Killer" Kilbourn, single, every Monday recounts his weekend conquests, is a known liar. Sammy "Dropper" Hayes, bets on anything, borrows like mad. Billy "Bad-Mouth," every other word was an expletive. Phil "Slim" Summers, 275-lb foreman, walks with a limp from a gunshot wound, never a smile from him.

"What a place," Tom thought, "I feel like I’m trapped. Like this is some weird prison." The place was extremely noisy: men shouting, stamping machines running, lathes and drill presses adding to the cacophony. And a radio belting out the latest rock music only added to the organized confusion on the floor! Although he wore headphones to protect his hearing, noise still seeped through. "I just don’t feel like I belong here!"

Finishing his drink, he tossed the cup into a nearby trash container and returned to work, stacking storm window frames. This was what he did each day, stack storm window frames! "A loss of four hard years," he thought, "any uneducated lout could do this." But, right now, he was the "lout" doing it.

"Hey, Tommy! Hows it goin’," a voice called.

Tom turned towards the sound and saw Phil walking over to him. "Hangin’ in there," he replied, "did ya know number three grinder is down again?"

Phil frowned and said, "Yeah, that f----- piece of s--- is comin’ the f--- out. So, where ya goin’ on vacash. Anything planned--takin’ a c--- along?"

Oh, that’s right. Two blessed weeks away from here, the noise, the depressing atmosphere, men who thought they were winners, but were really losers.

"No, thought I’d just get in my car and drive, just see where the road takes me. No plans, no reservations," Tom replied. Never did he reserve rooms, he liked spur of the moment decisions.

"Well, as of four-thirty today, you’ll be on vacash. And when you get back, you’ll have all those lovely frames to stack--we’ll save them, just for you!"

"Gee, thanks Phil. You shouldn’t have done that, just for me. You’re all heart," Tom replied.

"That I am, Tommy me boy, that I am," Phil said, then added, "seriously, enjoy yourself. Get away from here. You really don’t belong here, you and I both know that. You’re too smart for this place--stay, and it will grind you down to be like the rest of us."

"Thanks Phil, but I really need the work. There are too many other men out there who would be glad to have a job, even one like this."

Phil looked at him for a moment, then said, as he started to walk away, "you’re probably right, Tommy, just think about what I said."

Tom went back to work, picking up frames, stacking them, and moving them to finishing areas. It was move them here, move them there--all day long.

It was at four-fifteen that the whistle (figuratively speaking) sounded. This was a cleanup time. Machines shut down, work areas swept, all shavings removed. Scraps of metal were put into bins to be returned to the smelter. And, finally, men washed up, cleaning a day’s worth of sweat off themselves. Work uniforms, coveralls and rags, used to wipe down lathes and stamping presses, were all put into hampers to await the uniform cleaning service pickup in the morning.

As Tom was clocking out and leaving the plant, he heard, "Have a good one, Tom," "Enjoy your Vacation," and "Save a girl for me Tommy," the last coming from "Killer." He walked over to a four-year-old black Ford Taurus. He was, at last, on vacation. Ah, what a wonderful sound--vacation. Tropical breezes, sandy beaches, all come to mind, but Tom couldn’t afford any of that. Gas was the best he could do!

Tom drove home as quickly as traffic and local speed limits would allow. It would be a meal from a box, television newscasts, packing of two suitcases for the trip, a comedy show, then off to a lonely bed. Except for the packing, this was his life--no stimulation except whatever he got from the bright light in the box, hardly worth living and not so bad as to be worth committing suicide.

Morning came like it always did, bringing the promise of things improving. "Why is it everything looks so nice, the promise of a great day. Maybe it’s because I am off for two weeks," Tom mused as he had his morning shower. After drying and dressing, it was a breakfast of cereal, OJ, English muffins, and the necessary coffee. Dishes were washed next, then put away. A quick check of the apartment--then Tom grabbed his bags, locked up and, literally, danced to his car, thinking, "Two Free Weeks!"

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It was the third day on the road that Tom realized he had no idea where he was! A two-lane blacktop, in the middle of ? going to ? "Seems like my life is catching up with my driving," Tom thought, almost saying it aloud, adding, "Tom, don’t talk to yourself! People have strange ideas about people who hold conversations with themselves."

Since Tom wasn’t heading to a particular destination, he decided to just follow his instincts. It was after a few turns that his car started to act strangely--engine running rough, heat gage going up, then the high-pitched whine started. This meant he had better find a service station and fast, then, like a miracle, the sign appeared: HOPE, 5 miles, Pop. 25,000 and growing.

As he drove the road into town, he noted a business park that seemed to have at least a dozen manufacturers. "I wonder if they’re hiring," he idly wondered, "seems to be a rather prosperous community." But, all local businesses--no Burger King, McDonalds, Wendy’s or other fast food outlets. Spotting a gas station, he pulled in. An attendant came over, and asked, "Fill’er up?"

Tom replied, "I’m having some problems with my car. A high-pitch whine, and it’s running rough. Could you get someone to look at it for me?"

"Sure, no prob. I’ll take care of it. Leave the keys with me, you hungry?"

Tom thought for a second, then heard a distinct reply from his stomach: "Well, looks like I am!"

The attendant laughed, then replied, "There’s a very nice restaurant in town called ‘Gypsy’s’ and I can call you there with an estimate. My name’s Bob Simmons, what’s yours?"

Tom gave his name, and, being hungry, wandered off to find "Gypsy’s" and a bite. In the town, Tom saw smiling faces, polite people and children. A "Please, can you tell me where can I find ‘Gypsy’s’" brought a prompt "Two blocks down, on the left" response.

Walking along, Tom noted it was a pleasant town, one he would have loved to live in. There were bookstores, banks, a music store, a woman’s wear shop called Le Maison Femme (A rather big store, two stories), toy store, video rentals (old black-and-white as well as modern pix) and a pet store. Soon, he came upon the aforementioned restaurant. It was a two-story affair, the front looking like a building you might see in Budapest, Prague, or maybe somewhere in Bavaria. Entering the restaurant, he was soon met by a waitress, given a menu, and escorted to a table. Off to the side, someone was playing a very sad song on a violin--Tom found it very touching, the music seemed to be reaching deep into him, his heart, to the extreme depths of his soul. He NEVER had that feeling before.

After reading the menu, Tom decided on chicken salad, lemonade (the menu stated "We use real lemons"), and waited for the waitress.

"Ready to order?" she stated. She surprised him, and he took a minute or so to get composed, then said: "Lemonade, chicken salad. Can I get the salad with olive oil only?"

"Sure, and you get French Fries with that. The fries are cooked in 100% vegetable oil. Oh, would you like tea after your meal--it’s free!"

"OK, it’s free. Might as well," Tom said as the waitress took the order, picked up the menu and returned to the kitchen. The restaurant had about six other customers, all enjoying a noontime repast, It was as he was relaxing, contemplating a huge auto repair bill, that he saw her approaching his table.

"Hi! I’m Gypsy, the owner of this dump. Would you like your future? It’s all in the cards, you know!"

That was it, the words. Not foretold, predicted--just "your future." What did she mean? Could she change it? That’s stupid! Oh well, let’s just see what she says--probably a scam of some sort--get you interested, and make you shell out more and more money.

"No scam. It’s free! I’ll be back after you finish eating," she said as she left the table to talk to other customers.

It got him--whether it was the "free" or the "no scam," he wasn’t sure. Did she read his mind, or did she say that to all her customers as a way of reassuring them. Anyway, the food arrived and it tasted as good as it smelled! The fries were perfect, chicken was tender and lemonade took him back to when he made it fresh at home.

Gypsy and the tea arrived simultaneously. "Well, I hope you enjoy your tea--it’s a special brew. Now, your reading?"

Tom gave his assent, and watched as Gypsy sat down, produced a set of Tarot cards. "Please, hold these in your hand for awhile to take in your essence," she said as she handed him the cards. He held the cards a few seconds then, following her directions, he shuffled the cards, cut them several times, then placed the cards in piles, each with a random amount of cards. He watched as she picked piles seemingly at random, stacked them, then placed the cards in an intricate pattern on the table. All through this, he sipped the tea, which was very good: a slight taste of cherry, strawberry, tea (Green?), and something else, slightly bitter.

"Tom," she started, "You are running away from something. It’s not legal, but in you. Your work, maybe? You feel lost, out-of-place in this job. Your future is not there."

Tom started to get on edge--he never told her his name. She was right on about the job, though. There was a strange sensation starting in his head, and working its way down the body. A tightness in the chest, a tingling in the toes!

"I sense a sadness in you, a loss--your parents died and you still sorrow for them. Tom, it was their time--be happy for them, they want that. You are just punishing yourself, thinking if you were only there, they would still be alive. You would have died, along with them--it was not your time! They do not want you to feel as you do. That is part of why you work where you do, feeling you do not deserve anything better. You are, deep down, a strong person, a sensitive man living and working with other men who can not possibly understand you."

Gypsy looked at the cards, and a great sadness came over her, her eyes wet with tears as she said, "When you went to school, you were . . . ."

Tom interrupted with, "Please, don’t. It still hurts after all these years to say you were raped. Even as a boy, I should have fought them off."

"There were four of them, all bigger than you," said Gypsy, a touch of sadness in her voice. As a woman who went thriough it, she knew what it was like to be raped!

The sensation was now stronger, a feeling of giddiness, euphoria, like the tea had some drug in it. The tea--was he drugged? Is this all some strange plot--a human sacrifice? Would he wake up in some foreign place with no name, passport, money and be forced to be a prostitute to earn money to get home? Nah, that’s ridiculous!

Gypsy went on: "Relax, Tom, it will soon be over. There is nothing dangerous in the tea, just some herbs. You will get what you deserve for being a gentle person in a world of savages."

At that point, Tom passed out and into oblivion!

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In the morning (only now it had to be sometime in the afternoon), the opening of the eyes is most critical. Do you see familiar surroundings? Can you recognize your room? Or, did you awaken in a room you are sure is not your own, and you have no idea how you got there! Imagine how you’d feel, then you can understand how Tom felt. The room most certainly was not his own! It wasn’t even a man’s room. Taking stock of the situation, he noted: he was in a brass bed, the dressing table and bureau were French modern, there was a strong odor (aroma?) of perfume, the walls were painted in a pastel color, his legs and chest were hairless (although he never did have much chest hair) and, by noticing the amply filled bra, he seemed to have breasts, and, oh yeah, panties! Now what the hell is going on. He felt like screaming "where the f--- am I and what the f--- is going on?" He wanted to get out and just run from this scene of horrors! But the clincher that he was in the hands of some demented fiend was the cuffs on his legs and the chains attached to them and the bed. He could feel, but not see, the cuffs on the wrists. A few tries convinced him that he was also gagged in some way. There was a slight noise as a door was being opened.

"Oh good, you’re awake. First, relax, you’re not going to undergo some medical experiment, have your sex changed without your permission, or be sacrificed in some strange ritual. Second, I’ll give you a drink of OJ from a squeeze bottle in just a few minutes and explain a few things to you. That herb drink has a drying effect on the throat. Now, I want you to give me your word you will at least listen to what I have to say. Nod if you agree!"

Tom nodded his agreement, after all he couldn’t really go anywhere, now could he? He looked in the direction that the voice was coming from, and saw a rather attractive blonde girl, possibly in her late twenties, resembling Kim Basinger (at least as he remembered her from Pulp Fiction), approaching the bed he was laying in. As she got closer, he noticed her very blue eyes, luscious red lips, beautiful smile--he started with the face and worked his way down. If body assets could be cashed, this girl would be a billionaire!

She sat on the bed, pulled a small key from a well-endowed hiding place, and unlocked something in the back of his head. Soon his mouth was free and he could talk, scream, rant, all that, but what came out was "Where am I?"

"OK, you’re in Hope. My name is Chris, and I know your name is Tom. I’m going to keep you as you are until I’ve told you what’s going on. Now, down to facts, and these are truths! No medical experiments--you have very realistic breastforms glued on. You won’t be sold for or used in some sadistic rites. A little BDSM might bring some fun into your life, provided it’s done correctly! That little old wiggler of yours stays put--so you can play that old man’s game ‘hide the sausage’ (at this, she gave him a very big smile). But, you need to get rid of that old baggage you’re carrying--the guilt you feel over your parent’s deaths, that inability to date because of your shyness, and, the biggest guilt trip you have, your fear that you are not a "real" man because of your inability to land a job in the field you studied so hard for. Your lack of success with females and in your job equates to being inadequate as a man. That’s BS, Tom."

Tom laid there quietly, sipping the orange juice, taking it all in. Damn, she was right for the most part, then he said, or more asked, "so what are you going to do, execute me because I’m not man enough for you. Or will you tear apart what little manhood I do have--turn me into a little sissy, maybe you could find a nice, ‘real man’ for me."

Chris looked at him with anger flashing in her eyes. "Didn’t you hear a word I said! For the most part, you are a great guy, only nobody knows it! You hide it too well. You punish yourself too well, so you don’t need anybody else! Well, this is it! You need to get rid of those guilt feelings, the rest of that baggage dragging you down. You feel you failed as a man, so we, this town, will make you a female! Oh, nothing will be cut off, there’s no beatings to make you comply. In fact, here’s what we’re going to do: you try it for awhile, you don’t like it, you can leave whenever you want. If you aren’t even willing to try, to go back to that painful existing in that factory, you can do that, too!"

"What about my car. I can’t go too far without it," Tom said.

"You can stay overnight, get your car in the morning, and be on your not-so-merry way, at no charge!" Chris said, then added, "I’ll take those chains off you now, as a sign of good faith, and leave you alone."

Chris soon had the chains and cuffs off. She left the room, and Tom lay there, his head on a pillow, thinking. "Damn, she’s right. No friends, a boob tube for a companion. Art Galleries, alone. Museums, alone. Nights, alone. Mom and dad, if I were with them, I’d be dead too. I know I deserve a better life, but what stops me from getting it? Guilt, plain and simple. So, why can’t I do something about it? If my life is a mess because I don’t feel I measure up as a man, maybe I should become a woman. What did she say, a new life without that crap I carried as a man." He looked down at the bra and panties he was wearing, wondering how it would feel to be wearing them day after day. How would nylons feel, a garter belt, satin, silk, lycra. The feel of a lacy slip just peeking out under a dress, petticoats under a full skirt, wearing frilly and lacey panties and garter belts. The feel of lipstick, blusher, all those other strange concoctions women put on their face. Body oils, perfumes of many kinds, bounce of breasts, walking in high heels--could he, would he do it? More importantly, should he?

The big question: If he wasn’t much of a man now, how could this make him more, more of anything--so exactly, wouldn’t this depend on how a person views women, in general? If he has a low opinion, he certainly would not dress, he would be lessened by the experience. But, on the other hand, a person who honors and respects females, well that would make dressing bring him up, a raise in level.

Slowly, the door opened and Chris entered, carrying a tray of sandwiches. "Thought you might be hungry. Got ham and cheese, swiss on rye, and chicken."

"Thanks, I’ll take the swiss on rye. Chris, I know I’m not the biggest guy, but, still, how will you make me a female without surgery," Tom asked anxiously, afraid of the answer.

"Actually, we intend to make your feminine side come out more. We start with training. High heels, makeup, hair care, dressing from pantihose to panty liners to dresses and business suits. Job? There’s one waiting you--I’m pretty sure you’ll love it! Later, if and when you’re willing, we’ll put you in the hospital and they’ll shave that thingie on your throat, remove facial hair by laser, and, if YOU want to and give permission, breast implants and vocal chords shortened. Well, looks like you’re willing to give it a try!"

"Well, Tommy, you can go back to stacking window frames for most of your life, or try this out. Dump all the past into one large trashcan, and, literally, start over. Just what can you lose? Self-respect, ego," Tom thought, then answered, "I didn’t make it as a man, so what do I have to lose!"

"Good!" Chris almost shouted with relief.

After finishing the sandwiches, Chris had him put on pants and a shirt over the bra and panties, and a pair of slip-ons. Next, it was down stairs and out the door, down to a car parked at the curb. Chris had him get in, then went to the driver’s side of a blue Ford Tempo, entered with a "Fasten your seat belt." Soon with belts fastened, they were off to a new destination.

After a very short trip, Chris pulled into the driveway of a two-story, red brick house. There were flowers along the edge of a railed porch, the path to the house, and in beds alongside the house. A profusion of color: Lilacs, Roses, Marigolds, Pansies and Bluebells. There was a garage with a room (two?) over it on the left, and a pool on the right. He and Chris walked up the five brick steps to the house, across the creaking wooden porch and rang the bell. He could hear the chiming inside,

In a minute, a very pleasant woman answered the door’s summons. "Hi, Chris! How are you doing? Is this a new one?" The new woman appeared to be in her forties, with black hair flowing loose down her back. She looked him with a sparkling, mischievous brown-eyed smile. "Come on in and have a cup of tea with me! I’ve enough for three cups."

"Hi Andrea. Sounds good."

Soon they were all gathered in the kitchen, Tom remembered when his family would gather in the kitchen and talk for hours about everything and nothing! Chris started out: "Tom is a new one, and he might like to stay. I really could use your help, Andrea."

"OK, Chris, you got it. I’ll read the riot act to Tom. First, what is the name for him?"

Whoa, Tom had a name already, didn’t he?

"Well, we have Paula Scott, Jeanine DuBarrie, Claire Walton-Phillips and Terri Taylor."

"Tom, which do you like?"

"Terri Taylor sounds nice, but why a new name?"

"Well, for one thing not too many girls named Tom! Since you need a complete break from the past, the name has to go too! From now on, your name will be Terri Taylor."

"OK, that out of the way," Andrea started, "The Rules for you are as follows: Any time you want to leave, tell me--we’ll talk about what’s bothering you, and if you aren’t satisfied, you can leave with 2 replacement suitcases of your own clothes. You will follow my instructions at all times to the best of your abilities. Starting tomorrow, you will wear only female clothes. You will start training in wearing high-heels with 1’ and work your way up to 5’. Others will come in to teach you hair and fingernail care, makeup usage, voice and mannerisms, etc. This is no crash course, it will take four weeks as a start at least, and after that you’ll be learning more each day! Also, you will address me as Ms. Martin or mom or mommy. When you are in the house, you will wear underwear only. You will do the majority of the housework, washing and ironing. I will do the cooking until I think you know how to at least boil water. When I am satisfied, we will alternate making meals. Do you understand me so far!"

"Yes, Ms. Martin. But may I ask why just underwear? I won’t run away. And the addressing as mommy!"

"OK, as far as I’m concerned, you are a new, little girl. I will be teaching you as a mother would teach her daughter. Girls often address their mother as mommy. The underwear?" Andrea started to laugh, then said, "I have a slight sadistic streak in me. I find the idea of grown men running around my house in female undies so deliciously thrilling! Also, you will soon lose that self-conscious overactive macho ego, although you don’t appear to have one. Now, can you sew?"

Tom, now Terri, smiled at the question. When he was much younger, he enjoyed making things from bits of cloth--taking various scraps of multicolored cloth and putting them together, making a useful item! His dad said that boys didn’t sew or knit, and he shouldn’t do it either. Only girls and sissies did that. "Sissy" was the worst thing his father ever called him, it was a way he had to control him. If he liked something, his father would say something like, "only sissies do that" or "now you’re acting like a sissy!" and he would stop.

"Yes, Ms. Martin. I like to sew! I did when I was much younger."

"Good. Chris, would you be a dear. There’re 2 pizzas in the fridge. Would you put them on to heat for us?"

Chris got up, went to the fridge and soon had two pizzas in the oven, cooking. When she returned to the table, Ms. Martin continued: "OK, Terri. Starting tomorrow, you will write your new name at least two hundred times each day, in as feminine a hand as possible. I will check the writing, and if I’m not satisfied, it will be more writing! Later, we will have you write essays, developing a history if you decide to stay. Slippers, gown and robe in the morning for breakfast, high-heels all day. You will put on and take off makeup at least one hour each day, both for day and evening wear. You will use various perfumes until you are comfortable with them. If you have any allergic reactions to any product, I want to know immediately, NOT a day later. Hair will be left uncut; washed and conditioned every other day. You will go to a salon for a makeover, nail care at least once a month. And, a strict diet will be imposed--after we have our pizzas, of course!"

Chris got the pizzas from the oven, cut them into quarters and placed them on the table. She said, "I know it will be hard for awhile, but the effort will be worth it." A look on Tom/Terri’s face bothered her, so she asked, "Is there something on your mind? Don’t you think you can go through with this? What can I do to help!"

"Chris, I’m scared. I’ve always liked girls, wanted to meet a nice girl, settle down. But now, I’ll be one! I don’t know how to react when I have to date men. I just don’t know about kissing a man!" Terri said as she started crying.

"Terri, did I ever say anything about dating a man? Where did you get that idea from, more importantly, get rid of that idea."

"But, you said I would be a girl. Girls date men, don’t they? Wouldn’t I be expected to date a man; moreover, put out for him?" At this point, Tom/Terri was starting to feel really sick, like he had made the biggest mistake of his life. He remembered how a lot of men back at the factory treated most women ("she was a good C--- S------- bitch") and believed he couldn’t go through with this. Getting up, he felt like running, tears streaming down his face. Strong arms grabbed him and held him tight, as he rested his head on a shoulder. A second person joined in holding him in a tight, oddly comforting hug. "Go ahead, have a good cry, dear," said one voice. "It’s alright, we’re here for you," said another. Soon the tears subsided under the comforting feelings generated by two people who were, essentially, strangers to him. A piece of Kleenex was offered, and he blew his nose (why that helped, he never could figure out).

"Thanks, I think," Terri said still feeling sad, "I’m really sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever cried before!"

"Look, Terri, some day you are going to meet a special person that will accept you as you! I don’t know where or when. I can only tell you this much--what you do now, over the next few weeks, will affect your whole future."

Terri was about to say something when she changed her mind. There is something here that was hidden, and Chris knows more than she wants to tell.

"Chris, this person. Is it a . . . . a man? Do you mean I was destined to meet and marry a man so I’ve got to be a female to do that? How can that be? I mean, if I was to marry a male, wouldn’t I have been born a female?"

"Terri, you’re way off on a tangent! Gypsy knows you were unhappy in your work, were lonely, unfulfilled in life. You were meant for better things, a better life--but only by shedding your past and the preconceptions with it. The male part of you held on tightly to that past as an anchor, the safety of parents . . .," Chris was saying, when Terri interupted.

"Ms, Martin, Chris. The truth is my father, the one I felt closest to, often drank too much and was a skirt chaser. Mom knew, but chose not to say anything about it. I wanted to be strong like my father, because I thought my mom should have done something about his drinking long ago. She was weak! There are so many conflicting things running through my head right now! I just feel that if I became female, I would be as weak as my mother, that a man might take advantage of me--you know," Terri said, leaving the unspoken thought trailing off.

"Why do you think I want you to call me mom, Terri," Andrea said, "When you got older, did you ever stop to think that maybe your mother stayed with your father because of you? That you needed her? What I’m getting from you is a picture of a strong father that you looked up to, but he was not the ideal man. Your mother, in your eyes, was weak because she didn’t stop him from his carousing and she probably tried numerous times. Well, Tom or Terri, your mother probably stayed to see you brought up properly. She stayed for you, and that makes her a strong person, putting up with what he did! Your father kept giving in to the temptation of drink, going to excess. Excess, mind you! He was the one that had to stop, but he couldn’t--he was the one who was weak, not your mother."

Now it was Chris’s turn: "Tom, tomorrow you may wish to leave here, and that is your privilege, but here is something I would like you to consider. If you go without even trying, in your mind, you’ll be a quitter. Remember that saying, ‘Winners don’t Quit and Quitters don’t Win!’ "

"I’ll go up and fix your room. It’s the one over the garage. I’ll lay out a nightie for you, it will only take a minute. Then you can shower, put on a clean nightgown, go to bed and get a good night’s sleep," Andrea said, disappearing up the stairs.

Tom/Terri sat for a few minutes, digesting, like a beef jerky, all that was said. All hard facts! He did come this far, could he go on? He remembered someone once said to him that deep down the soul was sexless. So, what was the attraction between "sexes," why are men attracted to females, and was the fact that he worked mostly with men the source of the fear that he might be attracted to one of them, somewhere if not at work?

"Tom, why don’t you go up and take a shower now," Chris, "or you might enjoy a bubble bath more."

Tom took the suggestion and left to prepare for bed and the start of a new life, maybe!

As Andrea returned to the room, Chris looked at her and said, "What do you think, Andy. He seems like a good candidate, he’s had it rough--mentally, not physically. His father was going to send him to a military school, according to Gypsy, to ‘toughen him up and get rid of those sissy ideas.’ She also said his mother was able to talk him out of it."

Andrea sat, took a sip of cold tea, and replied, "Poor kid! He thinks we want to Homo-genize him. Still, he does have a nice face, could develop a good figure. Emm, let’s see--give me two weeks to start, and I should have a rather attractive, well-mannered, gentle person. So, to whom and where’s he assigned?"

 

End of Part One.

Annie O

 

Unfortunately, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or deceased, or any situation is purely coincidental. Permission to post on any site is granted, as long as Crystal gives approval.

 

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© 2001 by Ann O'Nonymous. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.