That Weekend Part One
                              
                                     

My negotiations in Baltimore went faster than I'd expected, no need
to stay the weekend and finish up on Monday or Tuesday, so early
Friday morning I booked a flight back and a few hours later when I
arrived home I picked up a small bottle of my wife's favorite
perfume before heading out to my car.  A peace offering, we'd
quarreled about something trivial just before I left, why I hadn't
cut the grass or cleared the table, or something.  Nothing.  But
there'd been a lot of those lately, arguments about nothing. 
Something bigger was bothering her that she wouldn't talk about. 
This weekend I meant to ask her what it was. 

Then when I got home something didn't feel quite right.  A chair or
two out of place -- Joan is meticulous about such things.  I headed
for a beer while musing about it and found half a bottle of wine
uncovered in the fridge, and wine glasses unpropped in the
dishwasher as if hastily put there.  From the night before, she'd
had a friend over?  And the back door was ajar.  Someone had just
left?

"Joan?" I called out up the stairs.  Then "Joan?" out the rear
door, figuring she'd gone into the back garden.  No answer.  She
wasn't home?  Her car was here.

Puzzled, I carried my suitcase upstairs and into our bedroom. The
first thing I saw was a badly mussed bed.  Even more puzzling.  And
clothes were strewn everywhere.  "Joan?" I called out again.

This time she answered.  Her voice was not welcoming.  It was
furious!

"Who is she?!" rang from our adjoining bathroom.  "You two-timing
shit, who is she?"

The bathroom door opened I saw her standing there still in her
nightgown, disheveled, livid, hair all awry and eyes glaring like
some vengeful vampire woman.  "Who is she, Jerry?" she practically
screamed!  Her face was wet, as if she'd been crying.  Or as if I'd
interrupted her as she rinsed off her tears -- there was still gray
eye shadow smeared across an eyelid.  She'd worn eye-shadow today? 
Friday, her work-at-home day?  Left over from yesterday?  But she
always creams it off, every night.  And she hasn't dressed yet.  

Such are the dumb thoughts you get unbidden even in the middle of
a ferocious crisis.  And this was a crisis, plainly.  A catastrophe
maybe -- Joanie was obviously outraged, out of her mind!  Baffled,
I looked at her, then all around the room, then again at the bed. 
And then I understood.  

I'd been found out.  The clothes strewn all over were mine!

She'd found my stash.  My beloved women's clothes.  Both valises
full and a box as well, all stuffed way back in my closet!  They
were now all over the bed and the floor.

I hadn't dressed for months, not that I didn't want to, but there'd
been no time.  My new business had recently reached a make-or-break
phase and needed my full attention.  And no opportunity either --
Joan had taken to working from home when she could instead of her
company's office, and her schedule had become unpredictable.  

I missed dressing up, the sacred ritual of remaking myself to
resemble a beloved object of desire I could admire in the mirror to
my heart's content.  And in fact if I do say so I'd gotten skilled
enough at it to make myself look quite pretty.  I thought so,
anyway.  But of course I could never take the slightest chance, the
faintest risk that she'd ever discover me.  She'd be disgusted by
me, outraged by my deception and demeaned to find herself married
to a man who wanted to look and feel like a woman now and then.  A
transvestite.  A pervert.  She was a straight arrow and a straight
woman as well as a tough lady, decisive in everything.  She'd stare
at me and decide flat out to leave me, I knew it!  And if she did
decide to leave me, she would!

I'd missed those few hours stolen from workday mornings or
afternoons  when I could make myself attractive to myself and in
that way renew acquaintance with my own feminine feelings.  It was
exciting -- I always felt I was trespassing in disguise in some
dangerous, forbidden place.  It was also sexually exciting -- when
I'd had enough of primping and admiring myself I'd make slow,
gentle love to the lady in the mirror. I'd lie back languorously
and rub my elongated clit until it felt exquisite sensations, and
work my lubricated finger in and out of my chaste anal vagina until
I came to a glorious orgasm.  It was wonderful, those hours spent
exploring my feminine self.

But none of that mattered now.  I looked around.  Dresses and bras
and slips were scattered on the floor.  My skirts and blouses were
tumbled in their valise.  My make-up case was open on the bed.  A
rumpled bed, partly unmade.  That figured.  I pieced the clues
together.  She'd found my stuff and her first impulse had been to
run away, and she'd actually gotten as far as the back door.  Then
she'd rushed back and flung herself on the bed, and she'd been
lying there crying.  I felt devastated, as much for her as for me,
but most of all for our marriage.  My life as I'd known it was
over.

My heart went out to her.  "You've been crying," I said softly, as
sorry for her as for myself.

"I've been what?"  For a moment she stared at me, baffled.  Then
glanced at the bed and understood.  Then returned her attention to
me, her eyes narrowing again.  Now her voice was acid.  "So whose
are these, Jerry?  Who's the tramp?  What woman have you been
harboring here?  Who do you fuck when I'm not here?  Who lives here
when I'm away on business?"

It was obvious.  My only salvation, or my marriage's only
salvation, was to tell all.  Full disclosure,   Endure the worst to
avoid worse still, maybe.  "These clothes,"  I said, gesturing at
the scattered piles on the bed and the floor.  "They're all mine." 


I paused.  She stared at me, incredulous.  

"I'm the tramp," I added.  "I'm the woman."  It sounded odd to say
it.  Then lamely, I added, "I live here."

"You!" she said, almost numb from this revelation.  As I already
was.

"I wear these things," I said as if that explained everything.  "I
like it.  I guess I'm what they call a transvestite."  I almost
added 'I'm sorry!' but I didn't.  I wasn't.  And this was truth
time.

"These are your things?  Not leftovers from some floosie you bedded
down in my bed?  They're yours?"  As I'd most feared would happen
when she found out, if she ever did, her lip curled in contempt. 
She just stared at me.  I looked back at her.  No, it wasn't
contempt.  Not yet.  It was disbelief!  She simply didn't believe
me.  "They're your dresses?  Your pantyhose?  Your ... bras, even?" 
She looked at my chest as if anyone could see there the obvious
evidence that I was telling an outrageous lie.  Or the lack of
evidence.  I was getting confused.

"Mine," I continued in a small voice, my confidence wilting even as
I spoke.  "All mine."   Then hopefully, desperately, I added, "It's
true, Joanie!  It's true!"  Tears started in my eyes.  "Think, why
would some floosie leave all these clothes here?  They're all in my
size!  They all fit me!"  I started to add with a certain pride,
'and they aren't floosie clothes, they're in good taste,'  but I
cut myself off.  I was fearful I'd convey the wrong thing.

"Oh?" she said, her voice rich with skepticism.  "These are all
your clothes?  You're a transvestite?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why should I believe you?" she asked scornfully.  She studied me. 
Then looked at the litter in the two suitcases and on the bed.  And
the floor.  Then back at me.  Then suddenly she spat out, "Prove
it!" 

"What!?"

"Prove it!  Show me!  I'm going downstairs!  I'll wait for you
downstairs.  Take your time, get dressed in them!  Put on a show! 
This oughta be good, MISS Jerry!!  You'd better be telling me the
truth!"

"Joan!" I tried to say in a desperate, exasperated, conciliatory,
reassuring voice, though all that came out was a plaintive whine. 
I felt for words like 'be reasonable,' and 'be patient, let's talk
about this like adults,' and 'I'm not lying, Joan, I've never lied
to you, just not told you everything'  But she'd taken her salmon
silk robe and put it on and swept to the door.  Then turned.

"Make it good, Jerry baby!" she said with warning in her voice.  Or
was it menace?  "This is your one big chance!"

And she was gone from the room.  Barefoot, I suddenly realized. 
Still wearing her nightgown.  A rather pretty one I'd gotten her
for our anniversary, from the same place I'd gotten one for myself,
though I'd had few opportunities to wear mine, only when she was
out of town on business.  She'd found my things first thing this
morning, I supposed, and had rushed around the house and then
finally flung herself down on the bed to weep her way through the
evidence of my infidelity.  I wondered if I'd have done the same
thing.  

It seemed a desecration of sorts, my women's clothes all over the
bed and the floor.  I was never careful with my men's clothes --
they lay where they fell usually.  But my women's clothes always
seemed to me a lot more precious.  More fragile.  Being a woman was
in part a matter of being careful about your appearance.

I decided to get to my own appearance.  Begin with a shower and a
thorough depillation, no need to hide hairlessness any longer with
half-way measures.  Then close-shave, three times, until all of my
facial hairs ended well below my skin's surfaces.  Then a
lilac-scented skin cream.  Then body powder scented the same way --
she hadn't found that, it was still in a box far back in my closet. 
Then a volumizing gel for my hair, and then I put it up on the
rollers also still hidden in the back of my closet.  Today I'd wear
my own hair, in a page-boy flip, not one of my wigs.  I had to be
absolutely persuasive.  This was my one big chance -- she'd called
it that herself.  If I couldn't persuade her that these were my
clothes and I knew how to wear them appropriately, that I was
indeed a transvestite, that I hadn't betrayed my vows of fidelity
to her, my marriage was over.  Not that it wasn't anyhow, once she
saw with her own eyes the truth about me.  But this was the only
avenue she'd left me.  I had to out-do myself.

There was no time to do my nails -- but fortunately, they were
already neatly tipped, the cuticles pushed back, and protected by
a three layers of clear matte finish.  The lady at the Nail Factory
had assured me the style was unisexual, good grooming for men or
women, though few men ever wore them that long or polished.  I took
fifteen minutes to do my face, pink blush brushed over an ivory
foundation, and liquid eye liner this time, to save my marriage I
told myself, fortunately it came out looking perfect.  And dark
brown eye-shadow.  And a pale, creamy lipstick that seemed to glow
-- I'd loved the shade the moment I first saw it in a Vogue
magazine at the salon where my nails were done weekly and I had my
hair trimmed to look sexually ambiguous.

When I was near the closet I could hear Joan speaking to someone on
the phone from downstairs.  To a lawyer?  I couldn't be sure.  When
I picked up our bedside phone, all I heard was a 'click.'  Then a
few minutes later the same thing.  Who knows who she was calling? 
I had to hope that if she was asking for advice, it was from
friends favorable to my side of things.  It almost didn't matter to
me that everyone would now know that I like to wear women's
clothes.  My marriage was at stake!  They were indeed my clothes! 
But I had to prove it!

It was late afternoon, so I decided on one of my cocktail dresses,
"ready to whirl into the evening and into the night in his arms,"
the tag on it had boasted, and it was indeed a very pretty
full-skirted tissue faille in various muted earth tones, with a low
belt line and a narrow, figure-hugging bodice.  It fit my figure
marvelously -- that would certainly help persuade her!  I thanked
whatever gods look after people like me that I hadn't stopped for
lunch that day, not even for a snack at an airport food court not
so many hours ago.  My stomach was flat.  And when I'd fastened my
bra and inserted my breast forms, and slipped into my dress, my
chest looked gorgeous, two hemispheres extending way forward.  I
was a woman again!  I put on my shoes, matching sandals with
three-inch heels, not too extreme, and I was almost ready.  I then
took the curlers out of my hair and blow-dried and brushed out a
bouncing page-boy.  Then I checked myself in the mirror again --
perfect.  I had to smile with satisfaction.

Then I went down to the kitchen to show myself to Joan and find out
my fate.    

She was sitting there with a drink in her hand.  Scotch on rocks,
her usual afternoon cocktail.  I'd taken some time, she'd had
several?  She looked at me carefully, critically.  Then her voice
softened.

"You aren't bad looking at all, honey," she said.  I found hope in
that 'honey.'  "You're really cute.  Very feminine.  Your make-up
is perfect.  You really have done this before, haven't you?"

I nodded, my anxiety melting.  I'm sure I looked poignant and
relieved all at once.  There were tears in my eyes.

"That dress is lovely.  The style's quite flattering.  In the
future, you shouldn't hide your figure the way you do."  

Was she being ironic?  She sounded sincere enough!  My heart
leaped.  "Thank you," I replied in the soft, flute-pitched voice
I'd practiced so often but no one else had ever heard until this
moment.

"I do wish I'd known earlier about this ... interest of yours.  I
could have helped.  We could have made girl talk.  I could have
asked your advice about my own hairdos, and salons, and we could
have gossiped together about which of our friends were cheating
with which others.  Whether we have the same taste in men.  You
know."

Now she was being ironic.  "I wish I'd told you earlier," I said in
all earnestness, in the same feminine voice.  It seemed suitable
enough.  "I hated your not knowing.  It always seemed to separate
us somehow.  But I was always afraid how you'd take it."  

She nodded understandingly.  But what did she understand?  "So tell
me about this, Jerry," she said.  "Are you like those tranny women
on Oprah?  You wanted to be a girl from a very young age, and then
you started dressing like one when you hit adolescence and found
that you loved it?  That it felt sexy?"

"I never wanted to be a girl, exactly," I replied.  "Just to look
like one, maybe feel like one.  Not to have to be a boy all the
time."  I was ready to confess everything!  This wasn't a disaster! 
Maybe it was the reverse!

I had to ask her, just to be sure.  "So now you're convinced?  You
do know now that these clothes really are mine?  That I haven't
been unfaithful to you?"

She seemed to find this question amusing.  "Oh Jerry!  Unfaithful? 
Look at you!  To be unfaithful to a woman you have to seem to be a
man, at least to some woman somewhere.  You aren't a man!  You're
very good at this, you know?  Obviously you've spent all your spare
time doing this, with no time left over for other women!  And what
kind of man would do that?  You don't look at all like a man.  You
don't sound like a man.  I can't imagine you ever were a man when
I see you dressed like this."  I waited now for what I knew would
be her zinger, and it came, in a quiet but steely tone.  "Tell me,
Miss Jerry, can you honestly call yourself a man?"

This was catty, cruel.  She'd probably had a few before I came in. 
I just stood there.  Honesty, honesty!  "Not now, no, I can't.  Not
when I'm dressed like this.  I like to think I'm a woman when I'm
dressed like this."  This was a little unsettling.

"You know something?" she said.  "I'm thinking the same thing.  I
can't call you a man either.  Nor think of you as a man."  

She may have meant that as an insult, but I resolved to think of it
as a compliment.  She looked me up and down carefully, as if
imprinting my image in her memory. I instinctively lifted my chin
and put one hand on my hip, and turned my torso a little to one
side, in a relaxed pose like a model's.  And smiled, maybe a little
anxiously.  Be proud, I told myself.  You have nothing to be
ashamed of.

"I really don't know," she continued.  "You actually like looking
like this?  Going through all the froufrou rituals women go through
to look decent each day?  You prefer looking like this to looking
like a man?"

There was no point in hiding anything from her now.  No more lies. 
No more deception.  "I like it, yes.  I do enjoy all the froufrou
rituals as you call them."  She waited, saying nothing.  "Now and
then."  She still waited, looking at me with those wide, wide eyes,
listening, expressing nothing.  I saw she'd cleaned away her
smudged eye shadow, and her small,  lovely face looked luminous,
expectant.  I couldn't read her thoughts at all.  Finally I added. 
"I need to do it now and then, Joan.  It's kind of a compulsion I
suppose.  I love it!"

She remained unperturbed.  "Yes, I've heard that about men who want
to be women, though I never imagined I'd ever find myself married
to one."  She sighed.  "You just might find it a little less
enjoyable if you had to do our things daily instead of just 'now
and then.'  Have you thought of doing yourself up daily?  Living
like a woman all the time?  Or becoming a woman in fact, going all
the way?  Getting a nookie of your own installed between your
legs?"

"No, never!"

"Afraid?"

"No.  I just don't want to."

"How about breasts?  Those you're wearing are lovely, and nicely
proportioned to your figure, you do have good taste, but haven't
you ever wanted to get the kind that are part of you?  The kind
that feel wonderful when a man caresses them?  You've imagined what
that must be like, haven't you?"

I couldn't deny it.  About the breasts, I mean, not about the man. 
But I said nothing.  She nodded, as if my silence confirmed
something.  And nodded again, as if settling something in her own
mind.  "If you had breasts, I'd never have to worry about you with
other women, would I?" she said half-aloud, half to herself.  I got
the impression she'd said it that way for my benefit, and I began
to feel uneasy again.  "Well, why don't you get yourself a drink
and sit down, and we'll talk."

Since I didn't dare let myself get addled at this crucial juncture,
I poured myself a mineral water on ice and decided to sip it as if
it were something stronger.  And sat down opposite her.  I noticed
I was holding the glass as women do, as if exhibiting the delicacy
of my hands.  Playing the part without thinking.

"Well, dear, since we can't either of us call you a man, I guess
I'll have to think of you as a woman.  How womanly are you?"  She
paused and again I braced myself to flinch.  "Do you have a
boyfriend, sweetie?  You can tell me."

Again, terms of endearment.  As if I were her husband after all? 
Or her new girlfriend?  Did she seem worried?  No, she was being
edgy.  Sarcastic.

So I got defensive.  "No, Joan, no girlfriend, you know that now,
and no boyfriend either.  I'm not gay, and I don't want either. 
Only you.  You've always been the only person in my life, of either
sex.  And I've never been out of the house dressed this way.  I've
been satisfied to pretend in private.  I've been afraid to risk
going further.  No one knows about this but you.  No one has ever
seen me like this but me, and now you."

My vehemence softened her voice.  "I appreciate that, Jerry.  And
everything you've just said.  But what you've also told me is that
you really don't know yet how far this goes, this compulsion of
yours to be a woman."   I began to protest, so she corrected
herself quickly. "This compulsion to pretend to be a woman, so you
can feel like one, is that any better?"

I nodded.

"Supposedly feel like one, as if dressing like a woman in private
was the only thing a woman ever feels like doing." 

Had her tart tone returned?  "Joan, I haven't done this for months. 
If it offends you that much, I'll never do it again!"  Not true,
and she knew it!  "I mean, I'll try never to do it again!"  I was
near tears.  "I'll really try!"  I meant it, though I knew that of
course I'd fail.  And if she knew as much about transvestites as
she seemed to know, she knew it too.

Now she seemed quite serious, even concerned.  "Jerry, listen.  I
can't possibly ask that of you.  You'd try and you'd fail, and
you'd hate yourself, and hide it from me again, and who knows how
that would end up?  And the fact is, I now know all about you.  We
have a new relationship, one of absolute honesty between us, unlike
our old relationship, where in my innocence I thought I was married
to a man and you in your guilt hid your ... womanly desires from
me.  What will happen with this new relationship remains to be
seen.  But what I see right now is that I'm married to a sort of a
woman.  And that there should be no further secrets between us.  We
both need to accept that!

I felt injured.  "You're still married to a man!" I insisted.  "I'm
still a man."

"Not now.  Not when you're dressed like this.  You just said so
yourself."

She was right.  I had nothing to say.  "But otherwise," I muttered
weakly.

"Otherwise isn't at issue here. What you are is at issue.  We need
to see just see how much of a woman you are when you're dressed
like this.  What kind of woman.  How far this impulse or compulsion
you speak of wants to carry you.  We don't know what we're dealing
with here, do we?  I'll go up and change, I'll only be a moment. 
Finish your drink and go get your purse, if you have one.  We're
going out."

"Joan!  No!"  I practically shouted.  In terror!

She stood up and looked down at me, and spoke in a firm, level
voice.  "Honey, you want to look like a woman?  How can I respect
you unless you're willing to act like one?  You need to pretend
you're what every woman is, in all sorts of ways.  You need a
social identity.  You need to be seen, to know you're being seen,
to be known to be a woman, to be proud of what you are and how you
look.  To be with other women.  And like it or not, with men.  So
we're going out!"   She headed out of the kitchen without waiting
for a reply, then paused and turned and smiled.  "Don't worry,
you're quite passable.  Quite convincing.  Look how you've
convinced me, after all!  You're doing very well, girlfriend! 
You're on a roll!"

And she was gone.  'Girlfriend,' she'd called me.  My fondest dream
had been that she'd sometimes think of me that way, call me that. 
But now I wasn't so sure.
  
She reappeared.  Fetching in a summer dress with a wide skirt like
mine, but with a deep neckline exposing her cleft, and carrying a
shawl.  It was warm now, but the nights were cool.  She expected us
to be out after dark?  "Ready?" she asked me with an expectant
grin, eyes sparkling.  "I think this'll be fun!  Found your purse
yet?"

"I don't have a purse," I replied timorously, my stomach where my
heart should be, my heart in my mouth.  I had to pay this price to
maintain her respect, I told myself.  "I've never needed one."

"Then we'll have to get you one, won't we," she replied instantly. 
"But I thought so, so meanwhile here, use this one."  And she
produced a clutch bag in the same earth-tone as my skirt.  "A
perfect match, don't you think?  Run upstairs and fill it with
everything girls need when they goes out.  Wallet, keys, your
current shade of lipstick and mascara, hanky, a few tampons, a few
condoms.  You know I'm sure, you've played this game.  We may not
be back till late."

"Joanie, I don't think ...."

"Jerry, don't think!  We're going out.  Either together or
separately.  If separately, then one of us spends the night in a
motel tonight and then talks to a lawyer first thing in the
morning, I don't much care which one of us.  Because you playing
secret games with yourself, pretending to be someone you're not, or
not yet, is unworthy of anyone I care to live with and insulting to
me and unacceptable.  That's how it is."  

I went up and filled the purse exactly as specified.  She was
twisting the knife by specifying those last two items I knew,
tampons and condoms, but I didn't want to take any chances.  I knew
where she kept her tampons, and the condoms I found in one of my
back drawers, dating from far back before Joanie went on the pill. 
It was just as well.  

When I got downstairs again she said simply, "Show me!" so I opened
my purse and showed her.  She smiled, a satisfied smile that
cheered me up.  This might not be too tense an excursion after all! 
"Good, honey!  I love it!  Those condoms are a little old, I
suspect, but you're not likely to get pregnant tonight anyhow.  I
forgot to ask, you aren't on the pill by any chance, are you?"

"No," I said.

"Many transvestites are, I hear.  It helps them feel more womanly,
and it gives their bodies certain womanly traits, so they look more
womanly.    That's what you want, isn't it?  To look and feel more
womanly?"

"Joanie, I ...."

She grinned sociably.  "Oh, c'mon, girlfriend.  Maybe I'm teasing
you."  She paused.  "Maybe."

"Joanie, I don't know what you're doing.  I don't know where you're
going with this.  You found some of my clothes and now you're
pushing me way further than I want to go with this under threat of
divorce.  I don't know what's teasing and what isn't!"

"No, you don't, do you?"  Her voice was level again as she turned
toward the door.  "But you're finding it exciting, aren't you?   A
whole new dimension has been added to our marriage, hasn't it?"

I couldn't deny it.  "Yes," I said.  "Scary but exciting."

"Trust me, Jerry.  I knew the moment you came down and I saw you
that this is how it has to be.  I'll drive, I know where we're
going even if you don't.  By the way, I can't keep calling you
Jerry, can I?  Have you thought about that?"

"Yes," I said glumly.  Another secret of my fantasy life now to be
revealed.  "You can call me 'Jerry' if you spell it 'Jeri" in your
head.  That's what I do."

"No, too similar.  You aren't at all the Jerry I married, remember,
my pet.  Let's not confuse the two.  And the Jeri you like to think
you are is about to be left behind, here in this house.  You're too
chic and soignee to stay hidden, mon cher.  Mon cher, you like
that?  How about 'Cherie'?  That's what all those French maid
transvestites are supposed to wish they were called, isn't it?  No,
I can see you don't care for that.  How about 'Sherry'?  Close
enough but different enough?

"Yes," I said.  I was beginning to wonder whether she really was
improvising on the spot.  She was always quick and decisive, true,
but this almost seemed to be something thought out in advance. 
Maybe while I was dressing and she was sitting downstairs alone
with that bottle of Scotch.  Maybe during those phone calls?  Was
I being set up?  For what?  Why?