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Date: Fri, 17 Dec 1999 07:23:03 EST
From: Laura Brooks <laurabrk@aol.com>
Subject: The Makeover
Part One
I couldn't imagine a more delightful way to spend a Tuesday
afternoon.
Outside, it was a cold, dreary late November day. The sun woke up
in the morning and then decided not to bother, leaving a gray pallor over
just everything. And while it wasn't raining or snowing, those clouds
certainly wanted to do something and the air was just as damp as if it were
raining.
Inside, though, I was curled up on my couch, my stockinged feet
tucked under me, some Stan Getz on the stereo, a chilled glass on Italian
white wine in one hand and a Linda Barnes mystery in the other. I love
Linda Barnes' books. Part of it, of course, is that she's a great writer
whose books are as funny as they are engrossing. Another part of it,
though, is that I imagine myself as Barnes' character, Carlotta Carlyle. I
may not have a beautiful shock of thick red hair (my hair is dark brown and
a little on the short side) but we share a 6'1" height and size 12 feet.
One big difference between us is that I have much better fashion sense than
Carlotta.
I guess if I was chasing bad guys all over the place I might settle
for jeans, T-shirts and sneaks, too, but I don't chase bad guys and I
wouldn't be caught dead in jeans, T-shirts and sneaks. Take that Tuesday,
for instance. I was wearing a knee-length Stewart plaid jumper over a
soft, bulky ivory cowl-necked sweater. I loved that sweater, which looked
like Angora but wasn't and I knew it worked well with the jumper, which I
picked up the spring before for $10 at an end of season sale rack at Sears.
I usually wore this outfit with black tights but today decided on pantyhose
instead. I don't know why. I'd kicked off my sensible 1" pumps and they
were lying beneath me on the floor. I wasn't wearing much makeup, just
some lipstick (as bright red as the red in the plaid!). My earrings were
gold-colored with faux opals placed just a bit off-center and I'd borrowed
a couple of my wife's gold bangles and a gold leaf-cluster pin for the
jumper. It was the season, after all.
My wife's bangles and pin, I hear you say?
Yes, my wife's. I'm a crossdresser, have been as long as I can
remember and I take every opportunity I can to indulge. Those
opportunities usually take place when Kathleen (that's her name) is working
and I'm not. I'm a librarian at a private school and generally work Monday
to Friday, but we get lots more vacation time than most folks. This week,
for example, was Thanksgiving week and the school was closed, so I took
care of some paperwork and administrative matters on Monday and took the
rest of the week off. Since it's a private school, too, none of the
faculty or students live in the area, so I never have to worry about
meeting someone from work when I shop. Kathleen, on the other hand, is the
assistant manager of the customer service department of one of the last
local banks in our area. She works Tuesday through Saturdays.
At the very least, then, I get all day Saturday for myself. I'll usually
go shopping in the morning, maybe pick up something new and cute, maybe
something functional, maybe nothing at all. Then I'll get dressed the way
I feel that day, in something romantic, or professional, or casual, or
silly. I'll work around the house a little, then relax with a nice book
and some music and around 4 o'clock or so I'll begin preparing dinner. By
5:30, I'm back upstairs, changing into my boy clothes again before Kathleen
gets home. She doesn't know, you see.
I've never told Kathleen about this part of me. I didn't mean to
be deliberately deceptive, but it just never seemed right. I mean, you
just can blurt out one day at dinner, "By the way, honey, I'm a
crossdresser. Does that bother you and can I borrow your silver strap
sandals tonight?" And if I was going to do something like that, I should
have done it years ago. Now, after eight years of marriage, there's not
only the crossdressing but the fact that I've been hiding it for ten years
(we dated for two years before we got married) would be an issue.
Besides, what possible benefit could there be to telling her? On the
downside, I could very easily hurt the one woman I've ever truly loved.
She could leave me. She could become disgusted with me. She could hate
me. I don't think I could bear any of those things. Was there an upside?
She could accept me, but then what? I could dress more often and more
openly, but what would that mean and would that be worth the risk? All in
all, I think I'd prefer to keep Martha (my female alter ego) in the closet
with my dresses and lingerie.
Every once in a while I agonized over these thoughts, but those mental
torture sessions were growing further and further apart. These days, I was
more often than not perfectly content to enjoy a few hours as Martha, like
I was doing that Tuesday. The CD-changer had replaced Getz with Anita
O'Day. The book was beginning to get complicated. I was dimly aware that
it was starting to rain and the wind was picking up. I wasn't aware at all
of the key turning in the front door lock.
"Hi honey, I'm home early. There was a power failure and
they... closed... the... bank..." Kathleen's voice dropped to a hoarse
whisper when she saw me.
I don't know which of us was more shocked. I know that my heart just
stopped dead. My brain froze. I couldn't move. A million thoughts raced
through my mind. Should I bolt out of the room? Begin to "confess?"
Leave with as much dignity as I could muster? Pretend there was nothing
wrong? Cry? Promise I'd never do it again? I wanted to do all of these
things and needed to do something but I couldn't move or speak.
Kathleen was equally paralyzed. Her mouth was open as she stared at me. I
could tell that her brain was sending messages to her tongue, but I could
also tell that nothing was coming out. Her hands still held the keys in
the lock that she had just opened.
It seemed to me that we just looked at each other for hours, but it could
only have been a few seconds. The abruptly, Kathleen spun and walked out
the door without saying a word. A few seconds later, I heard her car start
up and pull out of the driveway.
I was devastated.
I went upstairs and almost ripped my clothes off. I'm usually very careful
to pack everything just so when I'm getting ready to dress as a boy again,
but that day I just crammed everything into a bag and flung them into my
closet. In the bathroom, I rubbed my lips raw trying to get rid of my
lipstick. No matter how hard I tried, though, every time I looked in the
mirror I saw traces of bright red lipstick mocking me. I didn't think I'd
ever get back to the way I "should" be.
After a while, I gave up. Got into my khakis and a golf shirt and went
downstairs to wait. I watched television but I couldn't tell you what was
on. I didn't know if Kathleen were coming back. I desperately hoped she
was, but I had no idea how to act or what to say when she did. A million
scenarios danced in my mind, none of them good.
I wondered if I should leave.
I swore to myself that I'd never do it again. Never. A voice in the back
of my head kept whispering that I could not possibly "never do it again,"
but I tried to shout it down, saying that I had to. I had to put Martha
behind me. I had to.
Kathleen came home about an hour later. I was incredibly relieved to hear
her car pull up but terrified as to what would happen. As she came in the
front door, she avoided looking at me.
"I don't think I want to talk right now Mark," she said. "Maybe tomorrow.
Right now, I'm just going to fix myself something to eat and go upstairs to
read."
That's what she did and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening
brooding in the living room. I tried to read and tried to watch TV but
couldn't concentrate. I reheated some leftover Chinese chicken but spent
more time moving it around my plate than eating it. Finally, a little
after midnight, I slipped softly upstairs, undressed and got quietly into
bed. I don't know if Kathleen was sleeping or not, but her back was turned
to me and she didn't stir when I got into bed. I don't know if I slept
that night either, but I don't remember the sun coming up and I don't
remember Kathleen turning over and placing her hand on my hip. That's
where it was, though, early the next morning right before she stretched,
yawned and got up.
I gave her about 15 minutes after she went downstairs before I got
up. It seemed to take forever to brush my teeth, shower and dress but it
was really only a few minutes before I clomped downstairs in jeans and my
most macho flannel shirt. That was kinda funny, too, because when I
reached the kitchen, Kathleen was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt over a
T-shirt.
"Kathy, I am so sorry about yesterday. I'm..."
"Stop talking Mark," she said with a smile. "I'm not upset. I'm
surprised. I'm a little unhappy, I suppose, that you felt you had to keep
your hobby a secret, but I'm not upset."
I don't think her words registered with me right then. "You have
every right to be mad at me." I looked at the floor, then at her, then at
the floor again. "I'll stop. I'll stop. I promise I'll never dress up
again."
"Don't be ridiculous, honey, of course you will."
I must have looked puzzled.
"If you've gone as far as I think you have, and what I saw
yesterday tells me you have, you're not about to stop now. Just tell me
this honey." She paused and looked out the window. "Is it the just the
clothes, or is there more?"
I was confused. I didn't know what she meant and my confusion must
have been apparent.
"Mark, honey, do you just like to dress up or do you think you'd be
happier as a woman?" I heard her voice catch and I realized that my entire
future rested on the next few minutes. I'd heard about one's life passing
before one's eyes. Now I knew what it meant.
I'm 45 years old and to this day I don't know why I enjoy wearing
women's clothes. I remember being 5 years old and being fascinated by my
sister's Easter dress. I remember a few years later staring at the girdle
ads in the Sears catalog. I remember raiding the laundry hamper to try on
my mother's things. I remember the first time I bought my own clothes,
terrified that someone I know would see me. Of course nothing fit right
that first time but it didn't matter. I remember the first time I wore
panties to work and how I couldn't concentrate all day. I remember getting
the nerve up to approach a sales woman to tell her that I was a
crossdresser who'd never had the opportunity to buy my own clothes and ask
her help in getting me sized properly. I remember how her smile and
reassurance made me feel absolutely wonderful. I remember the first time a
salesperson asked if I wanted a gift box and I said "no thanks, it's for
me." All these images ran through my mind all at once and none of them had
THE ANSWER stamped on them. I just opened my mouth, let my heart do the
talking and hoped it would come out right.
"Kathy, darling, I love you more than anyone or anything I've ever
known and I know that you love me too. I don't want anything to spoil
that, ever. I don't want to be a woman. I really don't and I don't think
that's ever been part of it." Our eyes met for the first time since that
moment yesterday afternoon when she came home.
"...But you're right, I don't think I could stop. At any rate, I'm
pretty sure I couldn't stop and not go crazy. I don't know why I like to
dress up, but I do. I know I really like feeling pretty. I love, really
love wearing soft, pretty clothes. There's some part of me that feels
completed, fulfilled when I'm dressed in something lovely.
"All I can do is hope you don't hate me and we can work it out,
because I can't imagine living the rest of my life without you."
"I'm not going anywhere, honey." Her smile was warm but there was
something in her face that was distant. "I loved you yesterday and I'll
love you tomorrow. I don't understand this at all, and I don't understand
why you couldn't share this with me 10 years ago, but I'm not sure that
matters. It's still you and me, honey. I promise."
We both started to cry and then hugged each other.
Part Two
After a couple of minutes, Kathleen broke away. "I have to get to
work," she said, but I noticed she didn't look at me as she slid out of the
kitchen. A few minutes later she came downstairs in her uniform (white
blouse, slim navy skirt, matching navy vest, neutral pantyhose and sensible
1" black pumps - she wore this outfit, sometimes without the vest,
sometimes with a navy blazer, every Tuesday through Saturday). She gave me
a peck on the cheek and hustled out the door.
That left me figuring out what to do with the rest of the day.
What to do with the rest of my life. Everything had changed, but I didn't
know what it had changed to. Yesterday, I would have run right upstairs
after Kathleen's car had left the driveway and rummaged through my closet
for something pretty, or maybe I would have gotten in my car and done some
shopping. Somehow, though, neither one of those alternatives seemed like
the right thing to do. I wound up spending the day puttering around the
house in a daze, not doing anything or accomplishing anything and feeling
the time wasting away.
When Kathleen came home she called my name before opening the door
(which she'd never done before) and when she saw me dressed in boy clothes,
I could have sworn I saw disappointment on her face. She gave me a quick
kiss and went upstairs to change into jeans and a turtleneck. We made
small talk for a bit while I finished preparing dinner and continued
talking about things of no consequence all through my Pasta Putanesca.
It wasn't until she was clearing the table that I felt Kathleen get
serious. Her back was turned to me when she said "Honey, there's just a
couple of things I want to get straight."
I felt my stomach drop. "Here it comes," I thought to myself. To
her, I just said, "OK."
"I don't pretend to know what's going on, but first, I want to
know, no I need to know if you still love me. Do you? Do you still love
me and want to make love to me and live with me and hold me and grow old
with me?" She still wasn't looking at me.
I didn't hesitate for a second. "Yes. I do. To all of it." My
mind buzzed with other words, but none of them seemed right.
She turned around and looked at me. Her expression was blank but I
could tell her mind wasn't. She looked at for what seemed like hours, but
was really only about thirty seconds. "I love you too honey. Still. And
I think we can still make this work.
"But there's one other thing. This is just between us, right?"
I just looked at her, confused, not understanding what she was
saying.
"You're not dressing up with anyone else, or parading around the
streets, or hanging around in bars, or anything like that, are you?"
"God no," I splurted. I must have looked so shocked she believed
me, which was a good thing because I was telling the truth. I mean unless
you counted the several women's clothing stores where I was known as a
regular customer, I hadn't shared this part of me with anybody.
Kathleen looked relieved and almost relaxed. She still seemed a
little tentative, but the tension that had stood between us for the last 24
hours seemed to be fading. We watched a little TV (no pun intended),
listened to a little music, had a couple glasses of wine. Just before we
headed to bed, she turned to me and asked "Do you have a nightie?"
"Umm, yes."
"Why don't you put it on tonight. I'll be upstairs in a bit."
I did just that. Then I turned off the lights and pulled the
covers up tight to my neck and waited for her. She came upstairs in about
ten minutes, changed into a sleepshirt and sleep panties (panties that had
lost their stretch but were fine for sleeping) and crawled into bed beside
me. She started caressing my body through my nylon and lace and soon we
were making love like we had the second time we'd ever made love.
The first time we were too eager, too hot, too passionate. It was
an explosion that left us weak and exhausted and empty. The second time
was the next evening and was far more intimate. That time, we played with
each other, slowly and lovingly. We explored each other's and our own
bodies with a loving touch that neither of us had ever felt before and by
the time the sun came up the next morning, we knew that we'd be spending
the rest of our lives together.
This night was almost like that. It was as if we were both new
people and though we knew we weren't, the experiences all felt new and
wonderful. The only difference was that we fell asleep a couple hours
after midnight (we are in our 40s, after all!). That, and when I woke up,
Kathleen was cuddled in a ball on the edge of her side of the bed, as far
away from me as she could get. I couldn't quite figure out what to make of
it all.
That morning was Thanksgiving, and we went to her folks for
Thanksgiving dinner and had a wonderful time. When we went to bed, I wore
a different nightgown and we again made wonderful love together. In the
morning, Kathleen made a point of getting dressed and going downstairs
ahead of me, which made the task of getting dressed that morning almost
momentous. I had permission to wear a wardrobe that I'd kept secret for my
entire life, but had no idea what reaction wearing something from that side
of closet would bring.
I ended up going right down the middle, sort of. A pair of plain,
white, cotton panties. A lacy camisole under a big, blousy poet's shirt.
My regular (i.e., boy's) jeans. No socks or hose. Penny loafers. I
almost trembled when I entered the kitchen, but Kathleen didn't seem to
notice. A peck on the cheek, a cup of coffee and it was as if there was
nothing unusual in the world.
That's how this part of our lives got started and it continued in
the same way, more or less. Every once in a while, I'd go a little further
but it all seemed so, logical. Soon, I started wearing panties every day
and when the novelty of wearing panties wore off it seemed like my wearing
panties was the most natural thing in the world. The first time I wore a
skirt in front of Kathleen was on a chilly Saturday morning in early
December. I came downstairs wearing a long, almost ankle length denim
skirt under an Irish fisherman's sweater and she didn't blink an eye.
A couple of weeks after that, I took what I thought was a big
gamble when I wore the same sweater with a knee length wool plaid skirt,
black tights and chunky shoes. It was the first time I'd worn hosiery or
women's shoes in front of Kathleen and the first time I'd worn a skirt that
showed off my legs. Again, I entered the kitchen trembling with something
between fear and excitement and again, Kathleen didn't seem fazed at all.
"You look cute this morning, honey," she grinned as she poured my coffee
and that was the last notice she paid to what I was wearing.
As the weeks went by, I brought out Martha's (my alter egos name)
wardrobe more and more but the one article I couldn't bring my self to wear
again was a bra. I didn't need one. Back when my dressing was a secret, I
loved wearing bras and I stuffed them with all kinds of things but now that
there wasn't a secret, there was something about putting on a bra that
seemed, I don't know, decadent. I mean, here I was wearing panties and
camisoles almost every day, coming home from work and changing from
sportcoat and slacks into a blouse and skirt but a bra just didn't seem
right anymore. I had a half-dozen or so in my dresser and my attention was
drawn to them everytime I got dressed in the morning but I just couldn't
wear one in front of Kathleen.
Then, one morning, about a week before Christmas, I got dressed in
a silk poet's blouse, denim jumper and tights and headed downstairs.
Kathleen already had the paper open and the coffee ready. As she gave me a
section of paper, she said, "That's a really cute outfit, Mark honey, but
you'd look a little cuter with something up top."
I must have looked confused. "Mark, you really need some kind of
tits to make an outfit like that work. Don't you have a bra?"
"Uh, yeah." I must have blushed a million shades of red. "I just
felt a little weird..."
"You're wearing a jumper and tights, and you're telling me you'd
feel weird wearing a bra?" She smiled. "Don't be ridiculous." She put on
a schoolteacher's voice. "Go upstairs and get dressed properly young lady!"
Well, I did, but I still felt a little funny and I certainly wasn't
going to put anything in it. When I came back downstairs she smiled.
"That's a little better. Didn't you ever put something in it to fill it
out?"
"Yesss, sometimes." I remembered spending hours getting knee-hi's
with bird seed, water balloons and baggies filled with water just right to
give me the look I wanted. "I don't have anything like that anymore. It's
kinda ridiculous, I guess." I was lying through my teeth.
Those weeks I'd spend some evenings dressed in women's clothes, and
most of the time on weekend mornings I'd dress. If we were going out, I'd
change into boy clothes, with panties and sometimes pantyhose or a camisole
underneath. Certainly I'd never wear anything that anyone would notice.
We'd do our errands on Sundays and go to various stores but neither of us
would go near a clothing store or clothing department. The closest we came
to acknowledging this new phase of our life in public was in a grocery
store. The store had their house brand of pantyhose on sale and Kathleen
picked up a half dozen pair for herself. Then she turned to me.
"Do you need any?"
I didn't. Partly because I still had worn any pantyhose in front
of Kathleen (so far, just tights and long skirts - I didn't want her to see
unshaven legs under pantyhose) and partly because I didn't like cheap
pantyhose. But, even though I didn't, I didn't think I could let this
opportunity pass so I tossed a half dozen in the basket too. She didn't
say anything else until we neared the checkout when she grinned at me and
said "I wonder if the cashier will notice these are two different sizes?"
Our life was proceeding normally (well, as normally as a gradually
de-closeting crossdresser's life could be). There were occasional moments
of weirdness. While watching Monty Python one night, the "Lumberjack
Sketch" came on. It used to be one of our favorite bits but that
particular night we both sat in awkward silence. I used to do the laundry
most of the time and one week I mixed in a couple pairs of my panties with
hers. She didn't notice until one morning she put on a pair and they
almost slid of her hips. Kathleen also told me this story of looking in
the car's rearview mirror just before she went to work on Saturday and
noticed in a panic that there was a lipstick smear on her cheek. From me.
But apart from those incidents we were very, very careful to go too fast or
to get ahead of ourselves.
This all ended on Christmas. I'd gotten Kathleen some lovely presents, the
kind I'd gotten throughout our marriage. There was a beautiful
stained-glass window hanging, a big, luxurious picture book of English
gardens, a big, fluffy sweater and some odds & ends. She got me two gift
certificates. The first was from one of the plus-size stores in the local
mall. The second was from a foundation/lingerie shop in the same mall and
where the amount should have been were the words "one pair of breast
forms." I was speechless.
"I really don't know what you like, honey, so I got you gift certificates.
I hope you don't mind," she said as she smiled at me.
I leapt across the couch to give her the biggest kiss I could. I couldn't
believe how much courage it took for her to do this. "Kathy, you couldn't
have given me a present that meant more."
"If you think you could handle it, I'd like to go with you, too. Is that
OK?"
"Of course it is. I'd dreamed about this for years, Kathy, for years."
Christmas fell on a Sunday that year and I had the week between Christmas
and New Year's off, so on Monday we planned on getting my breasts. As I
was getting dressed (boy clothes today - khakis and a sport shirt),
Kathleen suggested I wear a bra. I was planning on it, but her suggestion
was a sweet one. I put on my prettiest bra, which was a 42C and it really
didn't show under my shirt and coat.
We got to the shop and one of the salesladies brought us to a relatively
empty part of the store. She showed us the different kind of breast forms
(I didn't know there were different types) and explained the features and
prices. She asked if I had a particular size in mind and after determining
that I had a bra with me, sent me off to the most isolated dressing room to
try them on. Kathleen didn't accompany me and I was a little disappointed
at that. At any rate, I slipped them into my bra and saw how they all
looked and I was electrified. Part of it was pure fear - after all, I was
a man in a lingerie shop wearing bra and trying out breast forms. But
beside that fear was the feeling I was experiencing by seeing MY breasts
under my shirt and knowing that Kathleen was behind it.
Then I wondered if she really was behind it or whether she was just
humoring me. Off and on for the past month I had agonized over what this
really meant to Kathleen and I had moved oh so carefully, following her
lead. Buying me breasts seemed like such a bigger step than we had ever
taken before and I could not stop thinking about where it was taking us.
On the other hand, I just couldn't explain how wonderful I felt with the
weight of my breast forms filling out my bra. It took a while, but I
eventually I stopped thinking, made my choice, repacked everything and came
out of the dressing room. Kathleen and the saleswoman met me and they took
my purchase to the register and did everything that had to be done. I
offered to carry the bag but Kathleen made sure that she carried the bag
with the shop's logo when we entered back into the mall.
When we got home, she said "you gonna try 'em on?" as if it were no big
deal. I bounded upstairs with the bag, took out the breasts and slipped
them into my bra and then put on the same jumper, blouse & tights outfit
she'd teased me about earlier. Kathleen was absolutely right, this outfit
did look so much better now. I discreetly tiptoed downstairs and with a
soft "Ta Dah" did a ballet leap into the living room. Kathleen didn't say
anything, but she smiled warmly and gave me a big hug and kiss. When our
breasts touched, I went electric and tingled all over. And I know that
mine were only silicon, but just the same...
When we went to spend the other gift certificate, it went about the same
way. We went to the mall and I was dressed in my boy jeans and a polo
shirt (although I was wearing panties, pantyhose and a camisole
underneath). When we entered the store the saleswomen looked at me a bit
quizzically - not because I was a man but because this was the first time
they had seen me with anybody. It also could have been a bit confusing for
them because Kathleen could have been shopping for herself, as she's a
plus-size herself. I smiled in a way that told them everything was OK and
started right towards the skirt rack.
While we were in the store, Kathleen just sort of poked around aimlessly.
Occasionally, she'd check the price tags of a T-shirt or a pair of jeans
and when I showed her something, she'd comment. We were there for a while
but in all that time I didn't see her really look at anything for herself.
I mentioned that a couple of times and she'd reply "I'm not in the mood,"
so I decided not to press it.
Eventually, after going through almost every rack in the store (I really
wasn't interested in outerware or sweatpants, so I left them alone) I
settled on a couple of outfits that I really loved. I had them rung up and
chatted with the sales women for a bit. As we left, Kathleen took the bag
as we hit the mall.
Over the next several weeks, my wardrobe grew dramatically as I actually
started to develop a style. With the ability to spend an increasing amount
of time dressed at home, I started to see what kinds of clothes looked good
on me and what didn't. Kathleen helped out here, too. At first, she
expressed approval with everything I wore but I suspect that this had more
to do with psychological approval than it did anything with a fashion
perspective. After a while, though, she'd notice something that looked off
and say "I think that this might look better if you..." or "We don't really
do it that way. You should probably..."
It was one of those comments that led to her giving me my first makeup
lesson. It was late February and the first spring dresses were in and I
fell in love with a long, almost ankle length yellow floral print. Big
bright pink and red flowers were sprayed across the sunny yellow
background, the sleeves were gathered into puffs and the shoulders and the
neckline was almost a collar style. I loved it and ran right home to try
it on. I kept it on (under an apron, of course) as I made dinner, and met
Kathleen at the door with a big hug in my new yellow spring dress.
She could tell I was excited but when I stepped back to show it off, all
she did was look at me appraisingly and said "That's very nice, dear. Very
nice." Then she went upstairs to change. During dinner we chatted but I'd
catch her looking at me with a funny look every once in a while. As I was
clearing the table, she cleared her throat. "Honey," she said.
"Uh oh," I thought to myself. She's having second thoughts. This is all
about to come crashing down on me. "Yes," I replied, as neutrally as
possible.
"That is a really pretty dress. I think you look very nice in it, but
there's something off. Turn around and look at me."
I did. She looked at me for a couple of minutes and I was getting more and
more scared.
"Have you ever worn makeup, honey?" she asked, when she finally broke the
silence. My jaw must have dropped but nothing came out. "I mean, I look at
you and I see a nice body with big boobs under a beautiful dress, but it
still doesn't look right. I think it's your face. There's no makeup."
"I tried a couple of times a long time ago," I answered, "but I wasn't very
good at it. It always came out looking either sloppy or slutty."
"We can fix that, hon," she said brightly. "Change your clothes, we're
going shopping."
After I changed (I hated getting out of that dress) we drove to the local
strip mall. In the parking lot on the way to the drugstore she whispered
to me "we'll just get some basic, inexpensive stuff this time. After you
learn what to do, you can get something nicer."
We went straight to the makeup aisle and she picked up a whole bunch of
stuff. I recognized the lipstick, nail polish and mascara, but I'm not
sure I knew what everything else was. As she was going through the racks
she kept looking at my face and a couple of times, when she knew nobody was
watching, she'd hold something up to me and frown thoughtfully. When she
had everything she needed, she told me to wait in the car.
A couple of minutes later she plopped down in the seat next to me and said,
"Let's go home. I have a couple of things to show you."
When we got home, she told me to get dressed (although I'd been dressing in
front of her for nearly three months now, she still hadn't seen me get
dressed) so I got into something simple and told her I was ready. She came
upstairs and sat me down on the edge of the bed and proceeded to pull
everything out of the drugstore bag and explain to me what it was.
Then, piece by piece, she began working on me. She kept up a running
commentary on what she was doing as she rubbed, smeared, dusted and drew on
me. I kept up with her for a while, but after a few minutes I just began
to bask in her attentions. A couple of times she pulled away to look at
me, but then she'd start in again and do a couple more things. Finally,
she put down the lipliner (the last piece of the puzzle, I guess), picked
up a hairbrush, did a couple of passes through my hair and then stepped
away from in front of my face so I could see.
I've read enough stories to expect that I should have been dazzled by my
reflection. I wasn't dazzled and I wasn't shocked by how beautiful I was,
but I was amazed by how much difference Kathleen had made in my appearance.
It was still me, but it was an enhanced me and I really, really liked what
I saw. What I saw looking back at me was a woman. A woman with a funny
haircut, but a woman. And in this moment, I understood that everything had
changed, again.
Part Three
I don't know why I crossdress. I don't know what caused me to put
on my first pair of panties. At one time, I thought that my fascination
with women's clothes was merely erotic, but after a time I grew out of that
and began to realize it was something deeper. I once thought that it was
merely practical, that soft fabrics and skirts were more comfortable and
more practical than suits. That didn't explain the bras and pantyhose, but
so be it. I once thought that maybe there were two psychological parts to
me that were represented by my external wardrobes, but the more I dressed,
the more I understood that there were hundreds of different threads running
through me and while some seemed more prominent when I was in a dress, some
didn't and they were all part of the same me. The more I dressed and the
more I thought about it, the more I discovered about myself.
There was one thing, however, that was consistently a part of me
from the very beginning. I was a man and through it all, I never really
wanted to be anything else. Being male was as much a part of who I was as
my fascination with architecture, my need to be organized (I may have been
psychologically as disorganized as hell but you'd never find anything out
of place in my file cabinets or my reference shelves), my need to dress in
women's clothes and my love for Kathleen.
I may have wanted to look and feel like a woman, but I never wanted to be a
woman.
And now, looking back at me from my bedroom mirror, was a woman. I
was more confused than I had ever been in my entire life.
I think the same thing may have been true with Kathleen, or maybe
my reaction was upsetting her a little.
"Like it?" she asked, her voice trembling and her face utterly
without expression. "I kept it pretty simple, so you can probably do the
same thing yourself next time. The important thing ..."
I lost track of her voice as I continued to look into the face in
the mirror. I wasn't entirely sure of what I was seeing. Kathleen wound
down after a bit and her silence became loud enough to hear.
"Honey, I don't know what to say," I finally managed. "I've seen
you made up a thousand times but I didn't know it could make this much of a
difference. I look so, different."
"Now you know all our little secrets, honey." She was trying to be
flip, but she sounded anything but genuine. I don't know what I heard in
her voice, but there was a little fear, a little anger, some disappointment
and a lot of confusion in what I heard. I heard all that, but I wasn't
listening. It was like background noise to me as I was far too consumed
with trying to cope with what I saw and what I felt. And I knew that it
was more important than ever that I come to grips with "this," whatever
"this" was.
Eventually, my heart resumed it's normal rhythm and we spent the
rest of the day doing what we normally did on days that Martha appeared,
which was to talk and putter around the house and watch a video or two and
not do much of anything constructive. Beneath that calm, my mind was
churning and in retrospect, I'm sure Kathleen's was too although we both
did our damnedest to pretend that there was nothing out of the ordinary.
We made love that night, but it felt very mechanical to me, as if I was
watching myself get excited and I programmed this body of mine to do what
it had to. When I came, I was early and spurted all over my nightie. I
apologized in a sort of perfunctory way and then rolled over and went to
sleep.
A few days later, for no particular reason other than it seemed
right, I shaved my legs and armpits. Kathleen smiled when she saw my
now-smooth legs under pantyhose for the first time (I hadn't dared before,
preferring tights, long skirts and pants) but she didn't saw anything. A
couple of days after than I shaved my chest and within days after that
bleached the hair on my arms. I couldn't reach my back but I did the best
I could, under the circumstances.
My life was becoming ritualized and I felt almost powerless to stop
it. I was now wearing panties every day, which was no big deal. I'd come
home from work almost immediately after the school day ended which was a
change because I used to spend lots of extra time with any kids who wanted
to use the library in the afternoon. As soon as I hit the door I'd be
taking off my male clothes. I'd almost race to the bedroom to get a bra so
I could put on my breasts. Then I'd spent an inordinate amount of time in
front of Kathleen's mirror putting on makeup before selecting a dress or
skirt/top combination. I'd started buying lots of jewelry and would add
whatever I thought worked with my outfit and only after I was utterly
satisfied that I looked absolutely lovely would I go downstairs to begin
dinner.
I always got home before Kathleen and I loved to cook so making
dinner was never a big thing but I was spending so much time in front of
the mirror that I often didn't get to begin dinner until just before she
came in the door. This meant that we were eating a lot of hamburgers,
grilled chicken and salads. Not that I did a bad job on any of these, but
they were quick and they didn't get in the way of my fantasy world.
Since we first were married, dinnertime was special for us. I
don't know why, but food and good conversation seemed as intimately
connected as we were ourselves. It didn't matter whether dinner was
something I'd prepared after coming home from work, or maybe one of
Kathleen's specialties on the weekend or take out pizza or even an evening
out in a restaurant, but this was the time where we talked about what was
happening in our lives. Now, though, even that was changing because I was
just so bursting with new energy and new experiences that dinner was
becoming a monologue. We might talk about something that happened at work
(either hers or mine) but sooner or later I'd bring the conversation around
to something I did for the first time dressed en femme or some feeling I'd
experienced for the first time. One part of me rationalized all this
Martha's introduction to the world but all parts of me failed to recognize
that to Kathleen, it was all Mark and Mark was not only monopolizing what
had been their special time but he was ignoring Kathleen for Martha. Not
only was I beginning to push Kathleen into the background during dinner,
but my continuing fascination with Martha's coming out began to push dinner
itself into the background. I never noticed. Kathleen was saddened, and I
didn't notice that, either. It also meant that we didn't eat out as much
as we had, because I insisted on spending as much time as I could as Martha
and neither of us could imagine Martha in a restaurant.
Martha was also beginning to put a financial strain on us. As
Mark, I never was much of a clotheshorse but I'd always been presentable.
Kathleen never spent much on clothes, either, which was fortunate. We both
spent lots of money on books, food, music (I'm a jazzaholic, Kathleen a
confirmed world music explorer and we both share a love of classical music
and Anglo/Celtic folk music) and decorative art. We've never been poor,
but we've also never been more than a paycheck or two beyond the mortgage.
Now, with Martha spending every Saturday shopping for clothes and jewelry
and experimenting while developing a style of her own, we added an entirely
new category of expense we'd never had before. The first time we'd ever
bounced a check was that spring when I'd miscalculated how much money we
had in the bank and the water & sewer bill didn't clear. It was written
the same day that I paid my credit card $500, which was about half the
total (I used to pay my bill in full but we couldn't afford to do that
anymore) I'd racked up on clothes and accessories for Martha in the past
three months.
It's easy to see now, but back then I couldn't tell that my life
was spiraling out of control. I was out of control. This idea of being
Martha had taken control of me and while I was still extremely careful
outside the house, Mark had pretty much ceased to exist once I got home.
And this was not good. Not at all.
The first tear in the fabric came on a warm night in early May.
School wasn't out yet, but it was winding down. I came home from work a
little early, changed into some particularly lovely lingerie and a rayon
robe before putting on breasts and makeup. I was absolutely meticulous
with my makeup that afternoon and mentally congratulated myself on how
beautiful I looked, then slipped into what you would have called a little
black dress if it were black and not turquoise, faux pearls and black
pumps. I was sophisticated and lovely and late for dinner.
I didn't even notice that Kathleen had come home and as I dashed by
the den on the way to the kitchen. I said hello, blew her a kiss and said
breezily "Sorry about not getting dinner started hon. I'll just whip up
something in a jiffy and we'll be all set."
"Don't bother," Kathleen replied. "I had a big lunch. I'm not
real hungry anyway."
I looked at her. "Are you OK, honey?" I asked.
She didn't respond for a few moments. Then she looked up at me.
"Dear," she said, "I don't think you're playing this role all that terribly
accurately. Most women who come home from work take the dress off, wash
away the makeup and kick the pumps into the closet."
She gave a big theatrical sigh and settled a little deeper into the
couch. "You might be working just a little too hard at this."
I was shocked into silence. My brain started spinning in circles,
not sure if I should apologize, whip off a witty bon mot, a psychological
explanation or begin an argument. The apology seemed like a pretty good
bet, although I didn't have a clue as to why.
"Honey, I'm sorry. I just..."
"No you're not, dear." She smiled at me, but the smile looked
tired and far too deliberate. "You're not sorry. You just think that
that's the right thing to say, but it isn't. It really isn't."
I knew it wasn't but I didn't know what else to do. I desperately
tried to think of something to say but nothing coming from my brain seemed
to connect with my tongue, so I remained speechless.
"I know how important this must be to you, dear, but it just isn't
working for me. I'm trying incredibly hard to imagine myself in your mind,
but I just can't do it. I can't imagine myself coming home from work and
willingly putting on a girdle and pantyhose. I can't. I can't imagine why
anyone in the world would want to wear high heels if they didn't have to.
"And then my imagination starts to run wild. What are those heels
and that dress doing for you? What need are they filling for you that I
don't? Or can't?" Her voice was gradually rising in pitch and intensity.
Then her voice dropped and she looked at me directly.
"Or do they replace me? If you can look like the woman of your
dreams yourself, what do you need me for?"
"Kathy, you can't begin..."
"SHUT THE FUCK UP," she screamed at me. I was stunned.
"Just...shut...up." She was quieter now. "I love you Mark, I
really do. But I don't know who Mark is anymore. I don't even know if you
still exist. You are confusing the hell out of me. I know I'm not a
lesbian but for months every time I make love I'm making love to someone in
a nightgown and lipstick. I wake up in the morning and watch you get out
of bed and put on a pair of fucking panties. I come home at night and get
a peck on the cheek from someone wearing a dress who has bigger boobs than
me. What does that make me?" She was beginning to sob. "What the hell
does that make me?"
I started to sit down next to her but she pulled away. "Don't,"
she said. "Don't touch me."
For almost five minutes we stood still in awkward, painful silence.
Kathleen, huddled in a corner of the couch, trying desperately not to cry
as she hugged herself, staring into space. Me, dressed for a cocktail
party, staring at her, not daring to move.
Finally, Kathy pulled herself up. "I'm going to bed." She shook
her head a couple of times and then headed upstairs without looking at me.
That night I slept on the couch rolled up in an afghan. When Kathy
came down in the morning, I bolted upstairs to take a shower, get rid of my
makeup and grab a robe (my male robe) before coming down to make breakfast.
Kathy and I were civil to each other and then she left for work and I got
dressed for work right after. That evening, we were polite and civil and
nobody said a work about our flare-up the night before.
And that's how it went. On the surfaces, our lives had returned to
what they used to be. We went back to all our old habits and rituals and
we smiled and were polite and life went on. At first, I stopped dressing
completely, but it wasn't long before I found an excuse (to myself, anyway)
to wear panties instead of jockey shorts to work one day, and then another
and so on. I never let Kathy see me dressed anymore, but I found occasions
to dress anyway, just like I used to.
There were a couple of moments here and there. There was the time
I hadn't finished putting away the laundry when Kathy came upstairs. She
saw me folding and putting away panties that obviously weren't hers, but
she went on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. One afternoon,
too, I was feeling particularly guilty about the state of our marriage and
loaded (almost) all of my clothes into three or four big Hefty bags and was
hauling them down to the car to bring to Goodwill. Kathy walked into the
garage just as I was getting ready to put the last bag in the trunk. She
asked what I was doing and I told her.
"I wish you wouldn't," she said and went into the kitchen. I left
those clothes in the car's trunk for almost two weeks before hauling them
back upstairs and putting them away. Again.
Several months went by like this. Spring faded into summer, summer
into fall. The coolness between Kathy and I gradually dissipated but I
can't say it was replaced by anything warm. I wanted desperately to move
the clock back a year, for Martha to never have left the closet but we both
knew that wouldn't happen and I didn't know what to do about it. Kathy
seemed to have built a cast-iron box around that part of our marriage and
while she was obviously and laboriously carrying that box around, she
refused to even see that it was there.
Until one day in late October. It was one of those beautifully
sunny fall days that occurs all too rarely. Most of the leaves had already
fallen and the sunshine just poured through the bare branches to flood the
still green grass. I was puttering around the kitchen, brewing a second
pot of coffee and doing a little cleaning while Kathy was sitting at the
kitchen table pretending to read the paper and letting her coffee get cold.
I was putting away the dishes from the dishwasher when I felt her eyes
following me around the room. I tried to ignore the feeling for a bit, but
I couldn't. I just turned around and looked at her.
"Yes?" I smiled, but it wasn't a confident smile.
"This isn't working, is it?" She was staring at me but I could tell
that she wasn't even looking at me. I was getting a little unnerved. I
must have looked bewildered.
"This isn't working. You, me, your 'other' self, any of it."
Finally she broke eye contact. "We are working way too hard to pretend
this is a couple of years ago and I never saw you in a dress and you never
made love to me in a nightie. I never bought your tits." Her voice was
getting quieter but her eyes were filling with tears.
"No, I never doubted your masculinity," she almost whispered, with
the sarcasm fairly dripping from her tongue. "I never doubted that you
were a man and I never doubted that I was all woman for making love to a
'man' who was wearing lingerie that was prettier and sexier than anything I
owned."
"Goddamn it," she said, her voice beginning to rise. "I was
married to you for 16 years. I thought I could deal with a husband who
occasionally wanted to explore a little but I couldn't. I couldn't." She
stared at me again. I was frozen stiff. "I couldn't." She started to sob.
"Believe it or not, I could handle seeing you in a dress. I really could.
I think I know what it means to you and I love you and I need you to be
happy. The first time we kissed and you were wearing lipstick I thought it
was the sexiest thing." She giggled through the tears.
"But what I couldn't take was what this was saying about me. Did
this mean I was a lesbian? I don't want to be a lesbian. I mean, I am who
I am and I don't exactly relish the idea that all of a sudden at 42 I'm
supposed to accept that the love of my life has bigger tits and nicer hair
than I do? I know they're fake and I know the plumbing's still right but
now I'm supposed to tell my brain to start fantasizing about, I don't know,
Cindy Crawford instead of Clint Eastwood?"
I felt like I needed to say something, anything, but I also knew
that to open my mouth right now would be a mistake. A Serious Mistake.
"But you know what got the most?" She continued. "I couldn't look
at you and see you being a better woman than me." Her sobs became louder.
"I couldn't stand you being prettier than me." At this, she completely
broke down. "I was never a very pretty girl. I was always too fat. I
spent too much time reading and not enough time talking about boys and
makeup. I didn't look anything like the girls in the ads in Seventeen and
I knew I never ever would.
"So I never even tried. I read books. I talked with adults. I
only bought clothes when I had to and everything I bought was navy or white
so I never had to worry about how it would match. I only would think about
things that were important. And I carved out my life that way.
"Then I met you and we fell in love and I knew that everything I
had been doing was right. You were absolutely the right man for me and I
felt it in my bones and I knew that everything I thought about high school
that was stupid really was stupid." She has quieted down a little by now
and for the first time since this outburst, she was looking directly at me.
"Then I see you in a dress. And at first, like I always do, I
intellectualize it. I go read about crossdressing. I do the research. I
try to put myself in your brain and I try to understand. And we talk about
it and I tell you it's OK with me and I even help you out and try to share
this with you.
"And then one night all my defenses just fell apart. I couldn't
help it, honey, I just couldn't. You just looked better than I ever had in
my entire life. Your clothes looked beautiful together and on you. You
had just finished your makeup and were looking at yourself in the mirror
and I went crazy with jealousy because you obviously loved the way you
looked and I always hate the way I look. And not only that, but I thought
you looked like one of those women in the fashion ads too. You really did
look great. And I'm standing out of sight gazing at you and my hair looks
like a rat's nest, I'm not wearing makeup, my blouse is wrinkled and has
sweatstains under the pits, I have on one of my seven knee length navy
skirts and I'm wearing my grandmother's shoes. And for a second, I hated
you and then I hated myself for hating you and then I got so confused I
fell apart.
"What are we going to do, honey?" She was spent. There were no
tears left and precious few words. "What are we going to do.?"
I pulled up a chair next to her and hugged her tight. "I don't
know Kathy. All I know right now is that I love you more than I've ever
loved you or anyone else before. Beyond that I don't know...I don't know."
I was wrong about the tears.
Part Four
Eventually, we both cried ourselves out and talked our way through
the rest of the night. We both apologized for things we did and things we
didn't. We talked about things that were silly and things that were
serious, but we never talked about my desire to dress in women's clothes.
As the sun came up I knew that we were both committed to making this
marriage work and that neither of us had the foggiest idea of how to do it.
Kathy broke our embrace and said she was going to try to get a
little sleep. On her way out the kitchen, I blurted "If you want, I'll
promise I'll never dress again." I don't know if I could have backed that
up, but I meant it.
"I don't want that, honey," And she went upstairs to bed.
I puttered around the kitchen for a while, cleaning up and then
stepped out on the porch with a bottle of chilled Chardonnay and a handful
of Miles Davis CDs. I know it was 7am, but I figure that since I hadn't
been to bed the rule against drinking before noon didn't apply. As I
sipped the wine and listened to the muted tones of Davis' trumpet, the
chaos whirling around my mind began to settle into patterns. By the time
"All Blues" rolled around (the fourth disc on the changer) I knew what I
wanted to do and I allowed myself to fall asleep, the morning sun shining
on my face, but not shining any brighter than my smile.
The next Sunday, I slept in a little later than usual so Kathy got
up before me. After she went downstairs, I showered and shaved (beard,
legs and pits) and got dressed - panties and chemise under Gloria
Vanderbilt jeans and a sea green polo shirt that L.L. Bean sold only in
women's sizes. I put on boat shoes with no socks and went downstairs,
getting ready to appear dressed in women's clothes in front of Kathy for
the first time in months. The only thing was that unless you knew the
signature Gloria Vanderbilt stitching on my butt and you looked closely
enough to notice that the three buttons on my shirt buttoned the "wrong"
way, I don't think anyone could have noticed.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and popped a couple of English
muffins in the toaster and grabbed a part of the paper that Kathy had
finished. We made small talk for a while and lapsed into a comfortable
silence.
"Do you trust me?" I asked her out of the clear blue sky.
"What? Of course I do." She looked confused.
"I mean, do you trust me enough to try an experiment, no questions
asked?"
"Sure. Yes." She paused. "You know I do."
"OK then, it's settled." I slammed my coffee cup down on the table
like a judge pounding a gavel. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"You'll see," and I swept the dishes into the sink, threw the
papers into the trash (no recycling for this impulsive fool!) grabbed the
car keys and held the door open for Kathy. "After you, my sweet."
Kathy reached for her purse and I knocked it away. "You won't need
that," I said smartly.
"I'm not going anywhere looking like this," and I could see her
point. She was dressed in a very faded, formerly white Cape Cod
sweatshirt, faded navy sweatpants and grayish Keds, but that's what she
always wore on Sunday mornings so I guess I didn't notice.
"You look just fine dear," I lied.
"And I haven't even brushed my hair!"
"You can do that in the car. Let's go."
She huffed and began to sit down. "You said you trusted me..."
Having played the trump card, she glowered at me (but I did detect
a hint of a smile) and stomped out to the car.
There are four malls in our area. One is anchored by supermarket
on the southern edge of town and has a liquor store, dry cleaner and a
couple of specialty stores. Another is across the street from a WalMart
and has a couple of discount stores, a hardware store, a drug store and a
bank. I hardly ever went to those two. The other two malls are on
opposite corners of the intersection of the interstate and the turnpike on
the eastern edge of town. Those were the big malls. That's the direction
we headed.
We stopped first at the large, enclosed mall. As we headed from
the car to the mall, I slid my hand across her back. "Oh good," I said.
"You're not wearing a bra."
The look she gave me could have penetrated a two by four at four
hundred paces. I just giggled silently.
Our first stop was at Under It All, a store that specialized in
foundation garments, swimwear, lingerie, and so on. As we entered, the
owner, Loretta, spotted me and waved from across the counter. "Hi Mark, is
this Kathy?"
"Yes Loretta and she's all yours. I don't think she's had a
properly fitting bra since before we married." Kathy's face flushed
deeply, but I couldn't tell whether it was from embarrassment or from being
furious at me. "Once you figure out her sized right, I think she'll need
several," I said to Loretta, as if Kathy wasn't even there. "A couple with
smooth cups for T-shirts, a couple of real pretty ones and some for every
day. I'll look out here for some other things."
With that, Loretta took Kathy firmly by the elbow and led her to
the dressing rooms and I turned to other pursuits. While Loretta and Kathy
were occupied, I picked out a half dozen new panties in colors and with
trims that Kathy would never have dreamed of picking out for herself. I
also picked up a pair of girdles, one long leg and one a regular
panty-girdle. I frequently wear a girdle and Kathy and I are only two
sizes apart, but my problem is waist and her problems are tummy and thighs.
Finally, I added two darling camisoles, one in ivory and one in white.
It took a while, but eventually Kathy emerged from the dressing
room with an armload of bras and one set of tags (which meant she was
wearing one of her selections). As we were waiting for Linda (one of
Loretta's assistants) to ring up the sale ($285.45, by the way -
outrageous!), Kathy whispered in my ear "You were right, but that doesn't
mean that I'm not going to kill you anyway." Then she saw Linda folding
the girdles and placing them in bag. I could almost feel the heat from her
glare.
Our next stop was my favorite clothing store, Laura Brown's.
Catherine, the manager, wasn't working on Sunday but Carmen, the assistant
manager was. We greeted each other and I tried to introduce Kathy to
Carmen but Kathy was remaining sullenly silent.
I explained to Carmen that Kathy's employer had a dress code that
stipulated navy and white and that Kathy's wardrobe thus consisted of a
bunch of boring straight-line knee-length navy skirts with simple white
blouses and maybe a navy vest or two for "variety." I wanted to get her a
couple of outfits that were more stylish and professional, along with a
couple of things for the weekend and evenings.
Again, Carmen and I talked as if Kathy weren't even there and since
Kathy refused to do anything but open her eyes wider and wider and she
stared at me and blushed, I figured I had no other choice but to keep
talking. Carmen steered Kathy around the racks as she talked to me and led
us to their career wear section. The first thing she pulled out was a pair
of high-waisted, tailored navy pants. She paired this with an ivory rayon
blouse with a banded collar and plackets across the breast. After leading
Kathy to the dressing cubicle, she picked out a gold chain belt and a
matching, collarless jacket to go with the pants.
Kathy was in there a long time and I had to go in after her. I
slipped the belt around her waist and put her arms in the jacket (Kathy
seemed to be doing a rag-doll imitation) and then almost dragged her out to
stand in front of the three-way mirror.
"That looks very sharp on you," Carmen said. "Very sharp."
"I've always known you looked beautiful," I whispered in her ear.
"I want everybody else to know it too." I kissed her softly on the neck.
Kathy just stared into the mirror, the anger gone but I wasn't sure
what replaced it. After a minute or so, she started twisting her hips a
bit and I could swear I saw her eyes moisten.
"I hope you don't think we're finished," I said to Carmen, as I
gently shoved Kathy back towards her cubicle. We were just beginning.
By the time we left, nearly 90 minutes later, Carmen and I had
picked out a long, soft navy skirt (matching the jacket) that was nearly
ankle length with a muted floral pattern of whites and greys, a dress made
of the same material and a slim cut calf-length navy skirt with slits up
the side. That skirt made me glad I picked up a girdle for her, and I was
sure that eventually, Kathy would see it the same way. We also chose a
soft navy cardigan, three white blouses with varying degrees of detailing
and three pairs of navy pantyhose and three pairs of black, both of a
quality far better than the supermarket stuff Kathy usually bought.
The more she tried on, the more Kathy seemed to relax and when she
tried the dress on, I could tell that she was working hard at suppressing a
smile. The dress was the last "professional" thing she tried. "That's
enough of this," she said. Then she amazed us both by grabbing an ankle
length, multicolored (it looked like a patchwork quilt, almost) broomstick
skirt and trying that on. When she came out, she picked out two more in
different patterns and then four solid T-shirts in complementary colors.
Finally, as we headed to the counter to pay, she grabbed a pair of
khakis and an olive camp shirt and added them to the pile. "These'll
probably fit. I don't think I need to try them on."
As Carmen was ringing up the sale, Kathy took my hand and gave it a
squeeze. That gesture alone convinced me I had done the right thing today
(and as the bill came to over $600, I needed a little convincing). Right
before the amount showed on the register, Kathy returned my kiss on the
neck and I was happier than I'd been in months.
Before we left the mall, we also picked up two pairs of new pumps
with 1" heels, one in navy and one black, a pair of strappy black sandals
with a low heel and a similar pair of flat sandals. Better than your
grandmother's sensible shoes, for sure.
As we left the shoe store, I had to make a couple of changes in our
itinerary. Instead of looking around in the big mall, I lead Kathy out to
the parking lot where we loaded our purchases into the trunk and headed
across the street to M'Lord & M'Lady, a hairdressing salon where I've been
getting my hair cut for years. It's a unisex salon and I've developed a
nice relationship with Tamara and Beth-Anne, the two owners. I'd called
ahead to tell them what was going on and after the experiences in Laura
Brown's and Under It All, I don't know what Kathy expected here. This
time, though, I'd told Tamara (who was working this Sunday) that all I
wanted was to have Kathy's hair softened a bit - to have her made prettier
without making too many permanent changes. After all, it was one thing to
change the clothes, it's quite another to change the hair. While Tamara
was getting her prepped and ready, her manicurist, Kim started working on
her nails. It took a while, but when she and Tamara were done and Kathy
looked in a mirror, we were both immensely pleased at the subtle, but very
noticeable differences.
The drive home seemed to be instantaneous. It's really about 30
minutes and I know we chatted inanely, but it seemed as if we got home 10
seconds after we left the hair salon. We hustled the bundles into the
bedroom and Kathy began to put things away.
I went downstairs, made a big Caesar's salad (with anchovies) and a
couple of gin and tonics and put some Debussy and Ravel in the CD changer.
When I went upstairs with the drinks, Kathy was wearing the khakis and camp
shirt and the tailored pants hugged every curve of her butt in a most
delightful way and I could tell that Kathy loved it as much as I did. I'd
never seen her dally in front of a mirror but there she was.
She saw me in the mirror and smiled. "I got a present for you,"
and she tossed me a couple of things - one of the bromstick skirts and the
black T-shirt. Apparently, when she picked them out, one of the skirts and
one of the T's were in my size. I slid out of my jeans and pulled up the
skirt (I loved it, by the way - it was perfect for me) and then pulled off
my shirt and replaced it with Kathy's T-shirt. I stepped back so she could
admire me.
She smiled and then rushed forward and hugged me with more passion
and strength than any time since we'd been married. The ensuing kiss was
delicious beyond words.
Eventually, we took our drinks down to the patio, where we watched
the sun set as we ate our salads and talked about nothing at all. We
eventually made it to the bedroom, but I have to tell you that the next
morning, my skirt, her shirt, her bra and my panties were all found in
different rooms.