Doubts 3 - Follow Becky's intimate thoughts as she navigates her day.

Reluctantly I push the memory of Gary ogling me in just my bra and panties out of my mind. I have to get ready for work. I love getting dressed each day, stepping into a dress or skirt and doing my make up, transforming myself into the person, the mature woman, I feel I am. I enjoy it so much; doing each day now what for so many years of my life I could only do a few times a year, and then only through careful deception and planning, nervously hiding behind locked doors. Today, like every day for the past year, I will be seen, observed, and judged, hopefully with approval. I wonder if women who grew up with skirts and long hair and spent their teen years with an opposite experience than I, love their morning routine as much as I do.

I'm trying to decide what to wear. After the meeting yesterday where I was 'reprimanded' for using a public women's room, allegedly, I need to make a statement. I want something that will be unambiguously feminine, perhaps even a little bit sexy, but professional. I'm sure the news that there was a complaint, it will be called a 'threat', that a female sanctuary was compromised, will be common gossip by the time I walk the halls today. I also have to think about pleasing Janice.

Janice is the woman I think I'm falling in love with. I call her Ja Nice. We've been seeing each other for eight months. She's not my girlfriend and we are not dating, but spend four of five evenings together a month. Tonight she has asked me to spend the night after she takes me to dinner so I've packed an overnight bag with all the necessities, makeup and clothes for tomorrow, as well as my favorite sexy nightgown, not the one Carol gave me last night; that one I'm saving for a very special time.

If I were a man I would not be attracted to Janice, but living as I do now, and the hormones I consume, I am infatuated with her. She is lesbian, of course, not a dyke but somewhere between full butch and lipstick. She has light brown hair, short but salon styled, wears very little makeup and only when necessary, and sports no jewelry except pedestrian earrings. I've never seen her in a skirt or dress; she doesn't own either. She doesn't like any clothing that fits tight especially underwear. She really doesn't wear panties, just cotton briefs and her bras are fundamentally plain. Except for her smallish breasts, from the waist up she looks like a 13 year old boy.

Janice is a therapist with a private practice that almost exclusively soothes the tender psyches of gay and lesbian clients emotionally wounded by friends, strangers, clergy, politicians, family, coworkers, and/or lovers. Seeking to expand her base to the trans community she came to the group support meeting I regularly attend about a year ago. She knew and understood sexual orientation but was fascinated with the concept of gender orientation. I became the object of her fascination and, after an evening in her office explaining what drove me to transition, she told me she was deeply attracted to me. She took the initiative and kissed me, and I passively loved it. Soon I was receiving weekly therapy sessions in her office on her couch, more physical than psycho.

I decide to wear a classic front buttoning chiffon pussy bow pink blouse (yes, that is what it is called) with a deep plunging tie, and pair it with a full mid-calf skirt in a pretty floral print. I will add my black patent pumps and then make it office appropriate with a one button business coat in black. Underneath I'm wearing a pretty bra and pantie set that shows a little cleavage nicely through the blouse.

Janice likes it when I'm all girly, sometimes making me feel like a teen, a virgin one. I think she is enamored with the whole trans thing, that I have so convincingly reversed my former life while still retaining the one thing lesbians usually spurn. Like so many others, she praises me for my courage. This isn't courage; it's survival. She also has a thing for lingerie, at least when it is on me, not her, so she will love the bra and pantie set. There seems to be a gender dynamic to our relationship, a confusing male/female lesbian/straight dynamic. I sometimes think I'm more confused than anyone.

It's mid-morning at work and I'm on the phone with the fourth call. Fridays often bring more calls for some reason. I'm talking to an applicant, we are now supposed to call them customers, who is upset about the long delay with his application. Everyone who calls is upset. I listen carefully, patiently. He calls me 'Miss' and is courteous in spite of his frustration. I'm sure the conversation would be different if he thought I was a man, or used to be. I assure him that I will make certain that a decision will be made within days and end the call.

I share a secretary with the Division Chief and she buzzes me. Bernice, the secretary, is telling me Frank is on line two. I hesitate. I just can't take another meeting where I am marginalized and pushed aside for who I am. I'm tired of being a former man, always viewed through the prism of what is between my legs. I tell Bernice I'll take the call; I have no choice. Frank is the Group Director.

When I pick up I hear Frank's familiar voice ask me how I am. We exchange pleasantries and he asks about our work, the dreaded backlog. I relax. He's not summoning me to his office and he doesn't mention yesterday. Instead, he asks if I am free for lunch. I have nightmarish visions of acompaning him to the cafeteria, walking past the restroom, where I allegedly violated rules, under the gaze of dozens of coworkers. Instead he suggests we meet at a cafe on Pennsylvania Avenue. I demure saying how much work I have. He insists saying he owes me an explanation as well as lunch. It's an offer a girl can't refuse.

I'm walking towards Pennsylvania Avenue trying to suppress my excitement. I know Frank so well, worked directly for him for several years. He is brash, confident, cocky and popular. Frank gets things done, motivates staff through a delicate balance of praise and criticism. He commands respect and love from everyone, especially women, many who have made themselves available to him for after-hours consultations.

Frank has a table waiting and motions to me when I enter the cafe. He stands while I take off my coat and holds my chair while I sit. He is so well dressed, worsted wool gray suit, light blue shirt and a perfect striped tie. I could never wear a suit and tie and look that good in my past life. He sits and hands me a menu. There is tension and I sense that the brash, confident man is uneasy. He breaks the initial silence by telling me how nice I look. I clearly have his attention and return the compliment.

Now he looks serious. He has an agenda as I guessed. Frank apologizes for the meeting yesterday. He's telling me that it just wasn't right in every way. I want to say it is okay but hold back. It isn't okay. Frank acknowledges I shouldn't have been blindsided, and I shouldn't have been reprimanded, and I shouldn't have been accused with such little factual evidence. He adds that my request to be free to use any women's room should have been considered, and decided on the merits. He looks me in the eye and swears that if it was up to him it would have been approved. It's little consolation but I believe him. He smiles and winks telling me based on appearances my picture should replace the restroom symbol for the ladies' room. He’s so smooth it is intoxicating. I smile and blush.

Frank goes on attempting to convince me how hard he fought for me but, alas, was overruled at every turn. He ends by wishing he could make it up to me, and I coyly tell him I wish he could too. I absolve him of any blame and we order, a salad for me and a sandwich for him.

The silence returns until he looks at me with the most enticing grin. I've known Frank for twenty years and never had a personal conversation with him like this, ever. I was never a member of his 'boys' club. This is different, an intimate, across the table, man to woman personal conversation. It's wonderfully frightening, nearly sensual.

Frank is checking me out, probably wondering what is real, perhaps searching for the man he once knew. His eyes dart across my face then up and down. He tells me for the second time how good I look. He's not exactly flirting but making a statement, like he's surprised. I've heard it before. People are always surprised that I look so "natural". Frank is, I think, trying to compliment me and I appreciate it. As our food arrives Frank tells me that I am one of the best dressed women in the building, and adds that he loves the blouse I am wearing. The waitress rolls her eyes. Frank is being his usual sexist self. I don't know how to react; I've not sat across from a man before in a little intimate cafe with the conversation bordering on how I'm dressed. It makes me uncomfortable.

I have no choice but to thank him and blush. I think I know what is coming next and I am right. Between bites, Frank tells me that if he didn't know he wouldn't think twice, never using the words but clearly meaning if he didn't know my past as a man, he wouldn't question my being a woman. It's a back-handed compliment. Eureka, I pass. By his reasoning, so I'm not real, not like the young women he is known to chase. Adding insult to injury he says that I am so convincing.

I stay silent. It's too convoluted for me to address in the moment but it doesn't matter. He treads into my privacy and presses me about my past. When did I know; was I bullied in school; when did I start dressing up and going out; why did I have to take such a drastic step?

I want to scream and run. I'm so tired of having to explain my past, explain the path that led me to transition, but running is not an option. Frank is the Group Director and holds my professional fate in his hands. I must answer, but decide to be anodyne, giving him the short version that spares him images of losing precious male assets. I explain that I've always known but couldn't understand; understanding was a decades long process; no I wasn't bullied, much; yes, I indulged in various levels of dressing up, as he calls it, my entire life, and that gradually over time I came to think of myself as female, and then acting on it, including secretly piercing my ears, and taking hormones. I become emotional telling the story as I usually do, fighting back tears.

I purposely leave out details like the rape and molestation, and the man who lured me to a hotel room, after I began hormones but before I transitioned, with an opportunity to "dress up" with a rather lavish gift of lingerie, but expecting what I consider gay sex. I dare not express to this alpha male how badly I want surgery. Friends tell me sexual identity is between your legs; gender identity between your ears. I disagree. For me there must be congruity. I try to end the discussion about my past and bring it back to the present. I tease him asking if he likes the way I "dressed up" today.

He smiles his approval but I discount the spark that I clearly felt between us. Frank still has questions, surrendering to his prurient curiosity. I'm not surprised that he asks about my sexual orientation. Everyone wants to know about that. He's trying to be delicate, diplomatic, framing his question as an assumption referring to a generic transsexual. His theory; a heterosexual man who becomes a woman, has the surgery, would probably then want to be with a man because why have such drastic surgery if you don't intend on using "it" as intended? Typical.

Before he finishes his supposition I suppress laughter, remain stoic, straight faced. I can't resist such an unbelievable opportunity, even if Frank is the Group Director. I take a breath before I answer, look into his sexy blue eyes as passionately as I can, and tell him that yes, I can't wait to have that experience. I drag it out, feign excitement. He’s buying my charade. I say I don't want to be crass, or too forward, but, I wonder, perhaps he might consider taking me for a test drive after I get the green light post op. I let that hang, enjoying the speechless expression on his face, until I smile and laugh. It is the first time in my long history of interacting with Frank that I saw hesitation, fear and doubt. I'm delighted.

I don’t regret spoofing Frank. He had it coming. I then explain matter of factly the way it really works; in his hypothetical scenario I explain, sexual orientation does not change and the new woman essentially becomes a lesbian. He nods but still looks confused.

I excuse myself to use the women's room, a public one, one that accepts me without fear. Frank doesn't object, of course. When I return Frank is nowhere to be seen. He has paid the check and, perhaps wounded, is limping back to work by himself.