16 year old Darren Peterman is introduced to his mother's best friends as 46 year old Nancy Peterman. Thanks to my editor and friend, Victor G.

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Chapter 9
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Eight o'clock Wednesday morning found me sitting in my bedroom in front of my new vanity mirror, excitedly undergoing another transformation into the beautiful, middle-aged Nancy. Normally, I'd be at school sitting in first-period home room and bored right out of my skull.

But I wouldn't be bored this morning, I thought with a grin as I pulled a tight-fitting nylon wig cap over my boyish brown hair, tucking away any stray hairs. There was far too much waiting for me - well, for "Nancy" - today for me to be bored at all.

Once my hair was completely hidden away under the wig cap, I began applying latex wrinkles around my eyes, carefully working them into place with a gentle adhesive. Once I was satisfied with the aging illusion they accomplished, I worked another set of fake wrinkles into place near both corners of my mouth. Once my entire set of wrinkles were set and properly adhered, I studied my work in the mirror. I adored how they made me look so much older, the first step in becoming the middle-aged woman that I deeply longed to be.

Feeling what was becoming an all-too-familiar craving for nicotine, I reached for my elegant Louis Vuitton cigarette case and pulled out a menthol Virginia Slims. I placed it into my mouth and lit up, taking a deep, satisfying drag. I held the smoke in for a few moments then tilted my head and exhaled luxuriously toward the ceiling, perfectly mimicking the actions of an older woman who'd been an addicted smoker for many, many years. Thankfully, my gaffe was already in place to keep my stiffening boyhood in check.

As I watched myself smoke, gently teasing myself with my mature, feminine actions, I realized this would be two days in a row that I had skipped school and gone AWOL from practice. Coach Holloway would be pissed, and probably take it out on me when I returned to practice, but it didn't matter. Today I wasn't Darren, I was Nancy. I was an adult woman with adult habits and responsibilities. I'd deal with Darren's adolescent problems another time.

I pushed aside any thoughts of recriminations waiting for me at school and continued my transformation. I set my cigarette down in an ornate crystal ashtray Mom had let me borrow and started on my foundation makeup. I dabbed a generous layer on a sponge and began applying it to my face, taking the occasional drag off my cigarette as I worked. As Nancy, I wore slightly heavy yet smooth, well-applied makeup to help perpetuate the illusion that I was an older woman skillfully using makeup to attempt to hide her age. A disguise within my disguise, as it were.

As I diligently altered my face from that of a teenaged boy into Nancy's prettier and considerably older one, I thought about my father and the things he said the night before. As hard as I tried, I couldn't picture my manly father prancing around in a dress and wanting to be a woman, but here I was doing the same thing. Maybe he was right about this being a genetic thing. If it was true, it shed a whole new light on my situation.

If my wanting to be a woman was really genetic, then that meant it wasn't my fault. Of course, I still owned all of the responsibility. My father said he felt similar feminine urges as a boy, yet he resisted becoming a woman. Why couldn't or wouldn't I do the same?

Did my father resist or was he not allowed to become the woman he wanted to be? It was the latter, but he still had a choice. Didn't he? He could have waited until after school, but he met Mom in college, and that must have put a lid on his becoming anything other than what he is now. But what about his regrets? It sounded like he had them, in spite of how happy he seemed with our family, which is why he was encouraging me to follow my dreams.

My father's revelations were a mixed bag of regret, understanding, and desire, but his bag had been camouflaged with a blanket of manly accomplishment.

My dad understood everything I was doing, probably better than my mother did. For all I knew, he understood me better than I understood myself. That came as a big surprise to me and I wanted to tell someone. Telling someone else would exonerate me from all the craziness I was feeling, but of course I couldn't do that. I couldn’t tell anyone, not even my mother. I'd made a promise to my father, and I'd keep his secret.

I was thankful to him for filling in some of the missing pieces to the puzzle of my life. The way he talked about it made me think that maybe my reasons for wanting to be a woman were genetic. Thinking about it like that eased some of the guilt I was feeling, but it didn't erase it.

My father had overcome his urges, but I was giving in to mine at a break-neck pace. Although I hadn't made any definitive or permanent decisions yet, I was racing toward older womanhood with open arms. My parents supported me wholeheartedly, so the only thing that could get in the way of my blossoming into an older woman was me.

After my foundation was finished, I lit a fresh cigarette and started on my eye makeup. I'd been practicing my makeup application skills the past few days (well, months really, when no one was home), and Brenda and Mom had been very good teachers, so I felt confident enough to try this on my own. I did a pretty good job outlining and painting my eyes and painstakingly coating my lashes in dark mascara. When I was finished, I was happy with the alluring way my eyes looked, especially with my green-tinted contact lenses in place.

I then went to work on my lips, outlining them and filling them in with a lovely rose color so that they looked fuller and more luscious. Seeing the color of my lipstick ringed around the white filter of my cigarette made me feel even more like an adult woman. I loved it!

I finished my makeup with blush and powder, and then carefully painted my false long nails in a shade to match my lips. While my nails dried, I lit another cigarette and watched myself in the mirror. I hoped with all my heart that Mrs. Estes and Mrs. Jackson - Mom's best friends - would accept me as one of their own. I prayed my appearance, voice, and mannerisms would be enough to convince them to let me into their inner circle of middle-aged femininity.

Once my nails were dry, I picked an outfit stylish enough to wear to meet the ladies. I carefully pulled a pair of sheer panty hose over my smoothly shaven legs, adjusting the control top over my padded girdle. I slipped a lacy white camisole over my head, and then followed with a button-down, cream-colored silk blouse. It took me a moment to get used to the buttons being on a different side, as is normal for a woman's blouse, but I eventually got it buttoned up. I admired the way the silk blouse fit, flattering my ample false breasts.

Next, I pulled on a calf-length navy blue skirt that also flattered my lower false mature curves, tucking in my blouse before zipping the skirt up on the side. I fastened a navy blue leather ladies' belt with a lovely, dainty gold buckle around my waist and slid my feet into matching navy blue leather designer pumps with slender three-inch heels. I pulled on a navy blue woman's suit jacket, one matching the skirt around my waist.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. From the hairline down, I was a an elegantly-dressed, attractive, feminine, mature woman with a face of well-applied makeup, but the snug-fitting wig cap atop my head made for a slightly comical sight. I sat back down in front of the vanity and picked up my blonde wig, then secured it into place with several strategically placed bobby pins. I took a moment to carefully run a brush through my hair, styling my new long hair just right.

To complete my look, I fastened a slender gold necklace around my neck and slipped a slim gold ladies' watch around my wrist, then attached a pair of gold earrings to my ears. Maybe I can get my ears pierced soon and not have to rely on these clip-ons, I thought with a smile.

I slid my stylish women's glasses into place on my nose and gave myself a spritz of perfume. I stood before the full-length mirror for one last inspection. I had to admit that I looked great. Nancy Peterman, an attractive, well-dressed, 46-year-old woman wearing a designer suit and heels stood there. I hoped Mom's friends would see me as such and not notice any traces of the 16-year-old boy athlete I really was beneath.

I gave a sweet, feminine smile to the mirror and gracefully offered a hand in greeting to my reflection.

"Hello, I'm Nancy Peterman, Bill's sister," I said pleasantly in my Nancy voice.

I nodded to myself, satisfied with my voice and mannerisms. I looked down at the feminine watch on my wrist. My mother's friends would be here to see me in half an hour. It was a meeting I had fantasized about all my life, but was now starting to dread.

My fantasies about hanging out with my mom and her friends never included an explanation of why I was an older woman like them, I was just unquestioningly one of them. My fantasies were just that - fantasies - and they didn't need to make sense, but it wouldn't be like that today. Today I'd look like them, move like them, talk like them, even — if they’d let me - smoke like them. Would they accept me as Nancy, or would they start lecturing me about throwing my life away? Would this affect their friendship with my mom?

Of course, Mrs. Estes and Mrs. Jackson - Susan and Margie - would want to know everything. Why I'm doing this and why I want to stay like this. Did I really have the balls to be honest with them? Maybe so, I thought sardonically, but if I kept on this path, I wouldn't have my balls for much longer.

I checked my makeup one last time, tossed my cigarette case into my handbag, slung the handbag over my shoulder, and made my way downstairs to await Mom's friends.

*******

Thirty minutes later, I was in the kitchen with Mom going over what to say to her friends when the doorbell rang. I must have been more nervous than I realized, because I'd just finished my fourth cigarette in that thirty minutes. I crushed it out in the ashtray as Mom gently squeezed my hand.

"You'll be okay, Nancy. You look amazing," she said reassuringly, "Right now, you’re a woman. Don't doubt that, okay?"

I smiled in reply and squeezed her hand in return. "Thanks, Karen. You're the best friend I could have."

She smiled warmly, touched by my reply. "You ready?" she asked, getting up to answer the door.

I nodded and told her I was, even though deep down I really wasn't. Once again, I felt like that prisoner on death row walking toward his rendezvous with the electric chair. My knees nearly buckled as I stood in my heels and followed Mom to the door. I felt keenly aware of my body and the artificial padding I wore. I knew I looked, moved, and sounded like an older woman, but how could I really expect Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Estes to accept me as one when they knew the truth?

I stood shyly behind my mother as she opened the front door. I could see Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Estes over my mother's shoulder as the three women excitedly greeted each other. My mother stepped back and Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Estes walked inside.

"Ladies, I'd like to introduce you to Nancy, my new sister-in-law!" Mom said proudly with a flourish.

I felt as if I might pee my girdle as Mrs. Jackson slowly approached me, studying me curiously.

"How do you do?" I said nervously in my Nancy voice, extending my femininely manicured hand, "I'm Nancy Peterman, Bill's sister."

Mrs. Jackson just grinned and gave me a big hug. "Oh my word! Darren, I can't believe it's really you!" she said as she kissed my cheek, careful not to mess up my makeup. "You look gorgeous, honey!"

Mrs. Estes appeared at my side as Mrs. Jackson took a step back. Her expression was one of shock. "I don't believe it. I thought your mother was playing some kind of game when she told me what you were up to," she said, shaking her head in disbelief, "But I guess she wasn't kidding."

"It's not a game, Mrs. Estes," I replied, still trying to calm my nerves. Mrs. Estes was my mother's age and about 5 or 6 years younger than Mrs. Jackson. She looked skeptical and maybe even a little disgusted, which made it hard for me to feel comfortable.

I paused for a moment, trying to collect myself. There was an odd silence among us, and I realized they were waiting for me to say something. I regained my feminine composure and gestured gracefully for them to come inside. "Please, do come in," I said pleasantly, "And thank you both for coming over. It means a lot to Karen and me."

Mom smiled at my graciousness and escorted us to the kitchen. She poured coffee for us all as I took a seat at the table with Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Estes. Both women looked at me without speaking, studying me like I was at the zoo. Their stunned silence was painful. In my discomfort, I ached for a cigarette but I wasn't quite ready to cross that bridge with them just yet. Let them accept my appearance first, I thought, then the smoking.

My mother's voice broke the silence as she reminded the ladies of why she had asked them to visit. "Nancy has a lot on her mind," she said as she put two mugs in front of Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Estes. "Her doctor thinks it would help if she talked to us about it."

"Are you sure this isn't some kind of joke?" Mrs. Estes asked as she pulled a worn leather cigarette pouch from her purse. "Because if it is, I have as good of a sense of humor as anybody. I'd just like to know before I open my mouth and say something I'll regret."

"So you don't think this is a good idea?" my mother asked as she returned to the table with coffee for herself and me.

Mrs. Estes lit a cigarette. From years of silently observing, I knew that she smoked Virginia Slims, the same brand I currently smoked, except hers were regular- not menthol. "He's a boy, Karen, and he's your son! I've known him since he was a baby and I've watched him grow up. He's no more of a woman than I am a boy!"

Her words stung me deeply. I don't know what I had expected, but Mrs. Estes's response was certainly different than I'd hoped for. Of course, maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. Mrs. Estes was kind of a holy roller, perhaps her aversion was rooted in her religious beliefs. Or maybe she just felt that way because she was a real woman, and I was boy pretending to be one.

My mother and Mrs. Jackson came to my defense. Mrs. Jackson asked Mrs. Estes to ease up while my mother tried to help Mrs. Estes understand my point of view.

"He wants to be like us, Susan, and he's wanted it for a long time," my mother said. "This isn't a game or a joke. Darren is completely serious about becoming a woman - an older woman like us."

"I can tell that from his make-up," Mrs. Estes said, once again scrutinizing my face. "It's bad enough that he thinks he wants to be a girl, but why does he want to be so old?"

I could have said a lot of things or I could have said nothing, but I chose to ask Mrs. Estes if the make-up looked real.

"Of course it does, Darren. You look completely believable. I almost had a heart attack when I saw you," Mrs. Estes said.

Mrs. Jackson removed a skinny brown More 120 cigarette from her long black leather case and lit it. My mother followed suit with one of her Marlboro Light 100s. "I think your make-up looks very nice, Nancy, and it looks so real," Mrs. Jackson said. "If I passed you on the street, I'd have thought you were just another middle-aged woman. When your mom opened the door, I wouldn't have known it was you if your mother hadn't given me a heads up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jackson." I said, feeling relieved at her kindness.

Mrs. Jackson smiled at me and exhaled. "Call me Margie, hon. I think friends should call each other by their first names, don't you?" she asked.

"Yes, I'd like that, Margie. Thank you," I said.

"So, when did all this happen?" Mrs. Estes asked. "Seeing you like this is the last thing I ever expected. Are you gay?"

"I'm not gay, Mrs. Estes," I replied. I noticed that she hadn't yet given me permission to call her by her first name, so I didn't. "I still like girls, but…"

My mother blurted in excitedly before I could finish. "He has a date Saturday night, with Tim Moreland," she said.

Margie and Mrs. Estes both gasped.

"Wow, nice going, girl! He's gorgeous!" Margie said.

"I thought you said you weren't gay," Mrs. Estes said pointedly.

"Well, I'm not," I said emphatically, "It just kind of happened. I met him at the park when I took Sammy to play football. We started talking and then he asked me out."

"And you said yes?" Margie asked with genuine excitement.

"I did say yes," I replied hesitantly, "But it was a mistake, I shouldn't have done that. I wasn't thinking clearly, and I got caught up in the moment."

"What are you going to do if Tim Moreland finds out you're really a kid running around in his mother's clothes?" Mrs. Estes asked. "Have you thought about that, Darren?"

"No, but he won't find out," I said, "I'll be careful."

"Don't you see, Darren?" Mrs. Estes asked. "It's just not natural. God never intended for boys to become girls and he certainly didn't intend for them to become grown women. Is all that real?" She asked as she pointed to my boobs. "Did you already get a sex change operation?"

Once again, Mom came to my defense. "No, but he might someday. That's why I asked you both come over today. There's a very real possibility that Nancy..." Mom emphasized my female name with a glance at Mrs. Estes. "Might get a complete sex change by this Christmas. I thought it might help her to make up her mind if we all talked about it."

"So this is kind of like an intervention, then, right?" Margie asked. "You want us to talk him - her - out of doing this?"

"No, not exactly," my mother said. "I really believe Nancy would be happier living her life as one of us and I think she should get the surgery as soon as possible. I was thinking we could talk about our lives and the things she could expect if she were to become a woman our age."

Margie reached across the table and touched my hand. "Sweetie, why do you want to be fat, wrinkled, and old like us?" she asked. "If you have your heart set on being female, why not look like a hot to trot super model?"

I smiled. "I don't think any of you are fat or old," I said sincerely. "I think you ladies are the most beautiful women in the world and I've always thought that. You're all so mature and smart and confident. That's the way I want to be."

"Well, you and your mother could pass for sisters, even if you are claiming to be your father's sister," Mrs. Estes said sarcastically as she blew a puff of smoke across the room.

"I know! That's what I want," I said excitedly. "I want to be just like my mom in every way. I've always wanted to be just like her."

"That's so sweet," Margie said. "Imagine that! A boy who loves his mother so much that he wants to be just like her. I've never heard of anything like that before, but the thought is sweet. It's such a big change from the way you really are. And Christmas is so soon. Don't you think it might be best if you took some more time and not rushed into things?"

The phone rang before I could answer. Susan, Margie, and I watched as my mom got up from the table to answer it. "I'll be right back," she said. "Keep talking."

I started telling Margie about feeling that it was right for me to be a woman and that since I felt that way, it didn't make sense to wait.

"It's for you," my mother interrupted us, offering the cordless phone with her hand covering it so that the person on the other end couldn't hear. "I think it's your football coach."

My heart flipped in fear. "What am I going to do?" I asked. "I can't talk to him like this!"

"It's not like he can see you," Mrs. Estes said with a smirk. "Just talk to him in your real voice and see what he wants."

I stood up and took the phone from my mother. I pulled one of my clip-on earrings off and nervously held the phone to my ear. "Hello," I said, reverting back to my real voice. The ladies watched me, incredulous at hearing and seeing my teenaged boy voice coming from a middle-aged woman's painted lips.

The voice on the other end was Coach Holloway's. "You missed practice yesterday, Peterman. Are you sick or something?" he asked.

"No Coach," I replied, dreading the tongue-lashing I knew was coming.

"Then why weren't you there yesterday and why aren't you in school right now?"

I wasn't about to tell him the truth so I told him I didn't know. "I just needed some time off for some personal things," I said.

"Personal things?" he asked. "Like what kind of personal things? What do you have to do that's more important than being ready for this week's game?"

I hate to admit this, but I was intimidated. He was the coach and I was the player and when coach asks you a question, you give him an answer. If he tells you to do something, you just do it and don't ask questions. But this wasn't like other times when my coach had yelled and tried to intimidate me. Anything and everything I said was going to have some kind repercussion, so I had to choose my words carefully. I told him again that it was personal and apologized for missing practice.

Coach Holloway didn't even bother to try to hide the anger in his voice. "Okay, Peterman. This is the way it's going to be. You're coming to practice today and you're going to run wind sprints for 45 minutes after we're done. And you're not going to start the game Friday night, Brukowski is going take your place. He plays until he screws up. If he doesn't screw up, then you don't play, got it?" he asked.

He expected me to say yes, and I halfway expected myself to say it too, but I didn't. I told him that I couldn't make it to practice today.

"You better change your mind about that, Peterman. Your whole future is at stake. Those college scouts who came to see you play against Wesley are coming back Friday night."

"But you said I might not even get to play. What's the point?"

"You're right, I did say that and I meant it. But that doesn't change the fact that your ass better be at practice this afternoon."

I didn't answer him because he didn't ask me a question. He expected me to say something, though. He expected me to say I'd be at practice, but I couldn't tell him that. I knew I wasn't going to go, today was a day for Nancy. He didn't know that but I did.

I looked down at my elegantly painted long fingernails, then at my feminine wardrobe. I thought about my mother and her friends. Would any of them let themselves be pushed around like this? I wanted to be a woman - strong and confident like them. After everything we'd been talking about, I couldn't let my coach push me around like some scared teenage boy.

Noting my silence, Coach Holloway screamed at me through the phone. "Peterman! Are you there?"

I drew up my newfound mature feminine confidence and replied. "Don't be an idiot, Holloway. You're talking to me aren't you?"

"What the fuck?" he said in reply, shocked at my defiance. "Make that an hour of wind sprints after practice!"

"Oh, I don't think so, 'coach'. I'm not going to be at practice today or tomorrow or even next week. I've got more important things to do. Is there anything else you want to talk about or are we done?"

The last thing I heard before I hung up on him was, "Fuck you, Peterman. You're through at this school!"

I tossed the phone on the table. In spite of trying to look and feel calm, the fight with my - now former- coach had taken a toll on my nerves. I'd quit the team. That part of Darren's life was over.

Did I really quit, I wondered? I think I did. My heart was racing. I wanted to run to my room and cry. Was I really that upset or did it have something to do with the female hormones I had started taking? I sat down at the table in disbelief. Things wouldn't be the same again. As the real woman watched, I dug inside my purse and pulled out my cigarette case. My hands were shaking as it took me several attempts to light my cigarette.

"Oh my God!" Mrs. Estes exclaimed. "Karen, he's smoking!”

An argument over my smoking broke out among the three women. I could hear them, but I wasn't listening. I was thinking about the phone call with my coach and I was too busy crying over it. Maybe the female hormones were to blame. I didn't want to play football anymore, anyway. I wanted to be Nancy, all day all the time!

"Are you okay, Nancy?" my mother asked, noticing my tears. "Did your coach say something? I'm sorry, honey. Did he kick you off or did you quit?"

I dabbed carefully at my eyes with a tissue from my purse and told her that I'd just quit. I think. "It all happened so fast," I said. "It felt like it was happening to someone else."

Mrs. Estes groaned and shook her head. "See there? Do you see what you did? You just ruined your whole life. How could you even think about giving up football for this?" she asked.

"Because real women don't play football," I said, reverting back to my Nancy voice. It was Nancy's voice, yet it was monotone and without emotion.

"Well that's what you get," Mrs. Estes said angrily. "I hope you're proud of yourself! I can't imagine what your father is going to say when he finds out."

"Bill will understand," my mother said calmly as she rubbed my neck. "It's okay, Nancy. Deep down inside, you know it's for the best. It hurts right now, but it will get better. You'll see."

"What’s with the smoking?" Mrs. Estes asked. "Are you and Bill really letting him smoke? Did you know about this?"

"Of course I knew about it, Susan," my mother said, irritated. "Who do you think gave her permission to start?"

"But he's only sixteen!" Mrs. Estes said.

"Oh please, Sue. How old were you when you started smoking?" Margie Jackson asked. "I was twelve!"

"Times were different back then," Mrs. Estes said. "That was then and this is now and it's against the law for 16-year-old boys to smoke."

"Darren may be 16," my mother said, "But Nancy is 46 and that's all people are going to know and see. She's not going to get in any trouble."

"Why did you start, honey?" Margie asked. "I know it couldn't have been peer pressure because none of your other friends smoke. Do they?"

I told her I started because I thought it would help with the stress I was feeling.

"I can't imagine how hard this must be for you," Margie said. "But please, don't feel embarrassed or ashamed about needing to smoke, especially if it's helping."

I thanked her for being so understanding.

"That's a very pretty cigarette case. Can I see it?" Margie asked.

I slid my case toward her.

"It's a Louis Vuitton," Margie said. "Is it real?"

I wiped away a tear and nodded. "Karen got me the purse and wallet, too, so they all match," I said.

Margie opened the case and looked inside. "Oh my," she said. "Look, Susan. Nancy smokes Virginia Slims just like you, except hers are menthol."

Mrs. Estes grimaced and shook her head and asked, "So what do your big tough football friends think about you wearing your mother's clothes and smoking girly cigarettes?"

I told her they didn't know, and that they wouldn't know.

"Well you can't keep it a secret forever," Mrs. Estes said. "I heard you talking to your coach. You know he's going to tell the guys on your team. Do you think they won't drop by here to see what you're up to?"

My heart did flip-flops because I hadn't thought about my friends coming over.

"Well if they do stop by, I'll just tell them that Nancy is Bill's sister, just in from out of town," my mother said.

Mrs. Estes looked at me drying my eyes. Her stern look softened. "I didn't mean to be so awful to you, Darren, but I just don't understand why you're doing this," she said. "You're such a great kid. I wouldn't have dreamed this would be happening to you in a million years."

"Nancy is still the same person you've always known," my mother said. "But this is the part of her that she's been hiding all her life. It's who she's meant to be. Who she wants to be."

"Explain it to me then," Mrs. Estes said. "Why do you think you'd be happier being like us than being yourself?"

Mrs. Estes had asked me a legitimate question. She wasn't cutting me down or telling me how stupid I was, even though I knew she was thinking it. If I had any chance of winning her over, this was the time to do it.

I told her I didn't think there was any way for me to explain it in a way she'd understand, "It's what I've always wanted and I've wanted it for as long as I can remember," I said earnestly.

"That doesn't sound like a good enough reason to throw away your life," Mrs. Estes said. "I've always wanted to fly, but that doesn't mean I should jump off a tall building. You don't even know for sure if this will make you happy. What if you wake up some day and come to your senses? Don't you think you could have some serious regrets?"

I put my cigarette out and stood up. "Look at me," I said, "Look at my hips and look at my breasts. Look at the fake wrinkles on my face and look at the kind of clothes I'm wearing. This is how I've always imagined myself looking and it's fantastic! But now I've got a chance to do it for real. I won't have to pretend like I'm doing now. If I get the surgeries, I can throw away all the padding and the Hollywood make-up and look this way for real."

"I know you can, honey," Mrs. Estes said. "Modern medicine and science are amazing things. But just because it's possible to do something, it doesn't mean you should. Think about the atom bomb. We could probably blow up any country in the world at the touch of a button. But that doesn't mean we should do it."

I told her I understood what she was saying, but that it was different from what I was trying to tell her.

"Then what are you trying to say?" she asked.

"I'm trying to say that I know I'd be happier as Nancy than I would be as Darren and I want to be Nancy right now instead of waiting to grow up to be her."

"Do you know this for certain?" Mrs. Estes asked. "Or have you just convinced yourself that you'd be happier?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's the same thing," I said as I removed another cigarette from my case and lit it. "Either way, I know I'd be much, much happier as an older woman. It's all I think about."

"And what about thing things that go along with being an older woman, like older husbands and teenage children, and worrying about supporting yourself? Do you think you'd be happier with those things, too?" Mrs. Estes asked. "Or have you even thought about those things?"

I took a drag on my cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke across the room. "Of course I've thought about them some," I said. "The truth is, I'm not sure if I want those things. I just don't know for sure."

"Maybe you just want to look and act like a woman," Mrs. Estes said. "And you think that playing the part would be enough to make you happy for the rest of your life."

"You're making it sound like it's some kind of game I'm playing," I replied defensively, "Maybe this is fun for me. But if it is some kind of game, I know I'm never going to get tired of it and I want to play it for the rest of my life."

Margie lit another of her long brown cigarettes and leaned forward over the table. "I think I'm just as confused about this as Susan is, but I've known you and your whole family for many years and I don't think you'd do this if you weren't sure about it."

I told her I was absolutely sure about it.

"I'm sure about it, too," my mother said.

Margie nodded and got up from the table. I wondered if she was going to make a toast or a speech, but she walked around the table until she was facing me.

"In that case, I'm very happy for you, Nancy," Margie said as she bent down to hug me.

As I was thanking her and hugging her, I felt four other hands on my shoulders and my back. I looked up to see my mom and Mrs. Estes. They were both crying. We all were crying.

"Can I get anyone some more coffee?" my mother asked, trying to lighten the mood, "I know I could use some."

Everyone - including me - agreed that more coffee would be quite nice.

******

The air in the kitchen softened as it filled with smoke and the sound of a hundred questions. I did my best to answer them all, but at the same time, I had some questions of my own. Mrs. Estes and I were now on a first name basis. She referred to me as Nancy and I called her Susan.

"What's it like to have a vagina?" I asked. Judging by the confused looks on their faces, my question seemed to puzzle them. Shouldn't they, of all people, know, I wondered?

"I don't know how to answer that," my mother said, "because it’s all I've ever known since I was born with one, but I suppose it's nice."

"Are you scared at the idea of getting one?" Margie asked. "I'm sure it's going to be a lot different for you."

"Yeah! No more standing up to use the potty," Susan said, her former sarcasm returning.

"And no more other things," my mother said, "You know… with girls."

"I am kind of scared but I'm really looking forward to it," I said.

"Why? So you can have sex with men the way real women do?" Susan asked.

I blushed and shook my head no. "I haven't thought much about sex, but I do think having a vagina would make me feel more like a real woman, so that's the main reason I want to do it."

"I keep thinking someone is going to pinch me and I'll wake up," Margie said. "I'm so used to you as Darren. Seeing you as Nancy and thinking of you as being my age is just so strange."

I asked her if that meant she didn't like me this way.

"Not at all," Margie said as she slammed her hands on the table. "I think it's wonderful that you're going to become a woman because you’ve convinced me it’s what you always wanted."

"It is," I said, “More than anything.”

"And we do get that this is what you want," Susan said as she touched my arm gently. "I think Margie's trying to say that we're still used to thinking of you as a teenage boy. The last time we saw you, you were talking about football and getting ready for a date with a girl. And now you're sitting at this table looking and acting just like us. You're even smoking like us," she said as she pointed at the cigarette between my fingers.

I blushed and smiled sheepishly.

"It’s such a radical change for us," Margie said. "Does it feel that way to you, too? Or does this feel normal?"

I told Margie that I loved everything about becoming a woman but that it felt far from normal.

"Dr. Giardi doesn't think that Nancy has a female brain," my mother said. "So instead of being a woman living in a boy's body, Nancy is a boy who wants to live in a woman's body."

"I don't know much about transgendered people," Susan said, "But that sounds crazy. Why would your doctor even suggest a sex change surgery if you don't really need it?"

"I do need it, but not in the same way other people do. For me, I need it because I want it so much and since I'm never going to stop wanting it, Dr. Giardi feels like I need it."

"And once Nancy gets the surgery that she wants and needs,” my mother said, “She's going to need a support group to help her deal with all the changes. That's why I asked you both to come over. I thought it would help Nancy to have friends while she's going through this."

Both Nancy and Susan assured my mother and me that they would be my friends.

"Do you really need to go to Mexico to get the surgery? Can't you do it here?" Susan asked.

"She could, but it would take at least two years," my mother said, "And Nancy doesn't want to wait that long. It would also be a lot less expensive if we did it down there."

"So are the doctors down in Mexico going to make her look older too?" Margie asked.

I explained the difference between cosmetic surgery and sex change surgery. "I could have all the cosmetic surgery done here and then go to Mexico for the sex change," I said. "Or I could have it all done down there."

"Except for the orchiectomy," my mother said. "You're going to have that done here. Aren't you?"

I told her I wasn't sure. "There's a part of me that wants to get everything done at the same time," I said.

"But Dr. Giardi said that would be too much stress on your body," my mother said. "She said you should do it in stages. That's why she started you on female hormones."

Margie asked if I was feeling any different from the hormones. I told her about getting emotional and upset. "I think that's why I started crying after my coach called," I said.

"That means you're starting to feel more like a woman," my mother said, "So that's a good thing."

"Won't hormones make your boobs grow naturally?" Susan asked.

I told her they would but they wouldn't make me as big as I wanted to be. "It’s same way with the other parts of my body too," I said. "They'll make my hips and butt bigger but not big enough. That's why I want to get the cosmetic surgery, so I'll look more like you all."

Margie laughed and said, "So you're saying we're old and fat and you want to be old and fat like us. Thanks a lot," she said sarcastically.

I was embarrassed and went on the defensive. "But I'm not saying that," I said. "I think you all are beautiful the way you are and I want to be beautiful like you ."

"It’s okay, honey. I'm just kidding with you," Margie said. "I get that you want to look older. I'm not offended but I am confused. Most women spend their lives trying to look younger than they are and here you sit wanting to look older. It's just a different way of thinking and I'm trying to get used to it."

"I guess it does sound kind of crazy," I said.

"Then why do you want to look older?" Susan asked?

"Older women like you are more real to me," I said. "You know everything about everything because you've already been there and done it. I think that makes you more confident and that's really sexy to me."

"I think sexy is looking like a 20 year old supermodel," Margie said.

"Not to me, it isn't," I said. "If I wasn't going to do this and I was going to stay a boy and grow up to be a man, I'd want to fall in love with and marry an older woman. She'd be pretty and nice like you guys are. And she'd smoke too," I said as I lit another Virginia Slims.

"Is that why you started smoking?" Susan asked as she lit a cigarette of her own.

I blushed and shrugged my shoulders. "I know it sounds stupid," I said, "but I've wanted to be a smoker like you guys all my life."

"You're right," Margie said. "Wanting to be a smoker does sound pretty stupid, especially in this day and age, but you don't have to be a woman to do it. Lots of men smoke."

I told Margie that I didn't want to smoke like a man. "I think it’s gross and gay when boys smoke," I said. "And young girls shouldn't do it either because they don't look old enough."

Susan laughed and said, "But you think it’s okay for the three of us to kill ourselves with cigarettes because we're older and it looks right to you."

"Well, I wouldn't say it quite like that," I said, "But it does look right to me. It’s like it goes with who you are, and fits your style. That's the way I want to be."

"Nancy believes she looks more believable as an older woman when she smokes," my mother said. "She says it gives her confidence and makes her feel powerful and smart and sexy and sophisticated." She smiled at me as Susan and Margie broke into laughter. "Am I missing anything, honey?" she asked.

I felt embarrassed and dumb, and the laughter wasn't helping. "Yeah, that's pretty much it, Karen. Thanks for making me feel stupid," I said.

Margie told me not to be embarrassed. "I think we're laughing because we all probably started for the same reasons you did- to be grown-up and sexy. However, now that we're all big girls, we can't quit because we're addicted. It’s one of those ‘Catch 22’ things."

Susan trimmed her cigarette in the ashtray and said, "Margie is right about it being a ‘Catch 22’, but if you're willing to pay the price, then you might as well enjoy the benefits and pleasures that go along with being a smoker. Just wait until a man lights your cigarette for you! That will really make you feel special and ladylike."

"Tim Moreland lit my cigarette for me when I was at the park," I said with a fond smile, remembering how I felt when I was with Tim at the park.

"And how did that make you feel?" my mother asked.

"It made me feel like I was a real woman, like you guys," I said.

"Well, there you go," Margie said. "It looks like you've joined the middle-aged women smokers club. Congratulations."

Margie's tone was somewhat sarcastic but her sincerity came through loud and clear. "Thank you," I said.

"What about that vagina question you had?" Susan asked. "I know we couldn't answer it for you, but how do you feel about it? How do you feel about trading your penis in for a hole between your legs?"

I thought about my answer for a moment. "I'm definitely scared and freaked out about it, but I think it would be so neat to have a real vagina like you guys have," I said.

"First of all, we're not guys," my mother said. "That's why we have vaginas in the first place. Why do you keep calling us guys?"

"I don't know. Force of habit, I guess. I didn't mean anything bad by it, though."

"Maybe you should call us ladies," Margie said.

"Okay," I said. "I think it would be real neat to have a vagina, like you ladies have."

Susan laughed and said, "I think it would be neat to have a penis. Can you imagine the look on Chad's face if I came to bed with a penis between my legs?"

My mom made an ugly face and shook her head. "I don't think Bill would go for me having one," she said.

Margie leaned forward with a serious look on her face. "Nancy, have you thought about how you'd handle it if you got into a romantic and serious relationship with a man?" she asked. "Would you tell him the truth?"

"Well first of all, he'd be able to tell as soon as he saw her driver's license," Susan said. "I bet it says right on top- under 21, and your real name would be on it too."

"I think we've got that handled," my mother said. "Nancy's doctor gave me the name of an attorney who is going to process her name change."

"She'll still be however old she is," Susan said.

"I would think there are ways around that," Margie said.

"There are, but they're not exactly legal," my mom said.

Susan looked impressed. "It sounds like you've been doing your homework, Karen. But Nancy didn't answer the question. Would you tell a man the truth?" she asked.

"Why should I if I have all the right parts and the driver's license to go with it?" I asked.

"Do you really think that would be fair to the man?" Margie asked.

"I think it would be fair," my mother said, "As long as Nancy is honest about not being able to have kids of her own. Once she gets the surgery, she'll be a real woman. That's all the man needs to know."

"It sounds a bit unethical, but I'm not going to argue with you about it," Susan said. "I think I'd keep it a secret too if it was me. How about you, Nancy? Do you think you're up to using a vagina for the purpose it was intended for?"

"You mean peeing while sitting down?" I asked.

"Very funny!" Susan said. "But be honest with me. Do you think you'll be able to satisfy a man sexually once you become a woman? I know you can do it physically, but I was wondering about the emotional aspect."

All eyes were on me as they waited for my answer. I told her that I'd been wondering and thinking about it too. "I didn't like the idea at first," I said, "But now that I'm getting closer to being a real woman, it doesn't sound as gay as it used to."

"It won't be gay if you get the surgery, honey," my mother said. "You'd be just like any other woman."

"Yeah, but I'd still be me," I said. "It’s not like they're going to give me a brain transplant, so I'd still know what was going on."

"I'm not making light of your dilemma," Susan said. "I just don't think you'd feel as awkward about it you were truly in love with the man. I love Chad and I'd do anything for him. And nothing is disgusting or gross when two people are in love."

"What about everything you were saying about God and how what I'm doing isn't natural or right? Do you still feel that way?" I asked.

Susan laughed and shook her head. "No, honey. I don't feel that way at all. I was just saying those things because your mother wanted me to ruffle your feathers, see how you’d react."

I looked at Mom, raising one of my thin, arched eyebrows. "So does this mean I passed the test?" I asked.

"Yes, and you did it with flying colors," she replied. "So do you still want to schedule that orchiectomy?"