Dad, That's a Beautiful Dress You're Wearing!

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Dad, That's a Beautiful Dress You're Wearing!

By Ginger Collins

Estrogen had taken possession of her body and testosterone was in frantic retreat, if not final surrender. She had curves, breasts, and luxurious blond hair. Her cheekbones were high and her painted lips were full. Undeniably, there were ever so slight traces of maleness in her, but it actually added to her charm and made her appear exotic or beguiling. She was wearing a coral suit with a long skirt and wrap jacket with Princess seams. Her matching handbag was large and just right. Her pumps were of snake-print design and with dress soles and two-inch heels. This young lady was a class act!

Admin Note: Originally published on BigCloset TopShelf on Wednesday 01-28-2009 at 06:19:25 pm (-0500), this retro classic was pulled out of the closet, and re-presented for our newer readers. ~Sephrena
I knew that I had to hurry because my dad would be home soon. Although it was a Saturday morning, his workout at the local YMCA only lasted so long. He usually returned shortly before noon. My watch read 11:44. Thus, I reluctantly bid a farewell glance at my image in the full-length mirror in my parent’s bedroom. It really wasn’t my parent’s anymore, just my father’s. My mother had died five years earlier of ovarian cancer.

Striking a dramatic model’s pose right out of a 1950’s Vogue magazine, I postured as I thought a Suzi Parker of that glamorous era might. Reflecting back at me was a tall, slender, young sophisticate in a stunning black and white ensemble with beads, embroidery, and rhinestones in a suit with an asymmetrical-front jacket with a hidden front button, princess seams, and cuffed sleeves. The skirt was long with a flat front. A matching hat with a picture brim and a bow along with a companion clutch purse completed the tableau. I smiled one more time, blew myself an air kiss, and frantically began to undress. Time was precious. It’s even more precious when you are a transvestite or cross dresser and your father is due home almost any minute.

With a rapidity born of practice and desperation, I quickly disrobed. The hat came off and went sailing towards the bed. The clutch purse followed. Then, I kicked off my three-inch dress sandals. My suit jacket was next. Thank goodness for only one front button. My skirt was even easier to shed with its elasticized waistband. I pulled the straps of my slip off of my shoulders and it silently fell to the floor around my ankles from which I deftly stepped. I removed my A-cup prostheses. They joined my hat and clutch purse on the bed. Unfastening my three-hook bra with a dexterity of which I was most proud, it became a companion to my discarded slip. Not much was left except for my Open Bottom Girdle, gartered hose, and panties. Well, that wasn’t quite true. I still had my wig to remove along with my makeup and jewelry. As the title of a movie goes, it’s “Different For Girls.”

Gathering all my goodies off the floor and from the bed, I made a beeline for my own bedroom. I barely made it inside as I heard the front door to our apartment open. Suffice it to say, my father’s return provided additional impetus for speed as I ditched my stash under my bed, rushed into the adjoining bathroom, closed the door, and turned the shower on. I was safe, barely. When you lead a double life like this, you don’t get three strikes. Normally, one is out.

Stopping to take a couple of deep breaths, I looked at the image in the mirror above the sink. What I saw was considerably less sophisticated than before. Gazing back at me was a caricature of a woman or maybe it was a caricature of a man dressed as a woman. Whatever it was, it looked bizarre and distorted. My wig was askew, my lipstick was smeared, my chest was flat, and I was wearing a girdle. I probably looked like a female impersonator gone berserk. It was a downer.

About fifteen minutes later, I emerged from my bedroom in my “All American” boy clothes, namely, chinos, a dress shirt without tie, a V-neck sweater, and penny loafers.

“Hi, dad. How’s it going?” I said as casually as I could.

“Good, son. How about you?” He gave me a warm smile. We loved each other a lot. In fact, the death in our immediate family had brought us even closer. I missed my mom. He missed his wife.

“What have you got planned for today?’ he asked.

“Oh, I thought I’d take a walk and then catch a movie. Are you interested?”

“No thanks. I’ve got some reading to catch up on. What time will you be home?”

“About six. Is that okay?”

“Sure, sounds great. What are you going to do for lunch?”

“I’ll grab a sandwich on the way.”

“That sounds like a winner,” he said. As an afterthought, he added, “Don’t forget tonight. Ginny said she be here around seven and that she had something important to tell us.” Ginny was Genevieve, my father’s steady girlfriend. They both had been sending up smoke signals about tying the knot. Maybe tonight was the big announcement. I hoped so. Ginny was a great gal.

“No problem, dad. I’ll be here. Catch you later.” I flashed him a smile and a thumbs up. He returned both as well as a goodbye. Then, I was out the door.

It was a cloudy, overcast day, the kind I like. My kind of San Francisco: misty, mysterious, the scent of salt water in the air, foghorns in the background, cable car bells in the distance. I left Green St. and headed downhill on Jones St. toward the Embarcadero. At any moment I expected Sam Spade to step out of the shadows. He didn’t, but a few moments later, a young woman in her twenties did. Our paths crossed briefly as she got into her car, an old beat-up Volkswagen. She had a bouncy, feminine walk and a pony tail both of which I envied. By no means was she a startling beauty, but she was certainly attractive. I smiled. She did too, but with considerably less wattage. Men and women are programmed this way and a woman can’t be careful enough, especially, when it involves strangers. She acted according to type. Inwardly, I sighed. Why couldn’t I have been born a girl? It wasn’t fair.

I continued to walk. As I did, my thoughts roamed far and wide. Ultimately, though, they came back to my single obsession: I was a male who should have been a female. Pink was my choice of color, not blue. Estrogen, not testosterone, should be what lighted my fire. Life was certainly a struggle, I thought. On a daily basis, I fought a mental battle over my sexual identity with no clear winner.

Fortunately, cross-dressing and surfing transgendered sites on the Internet gave some relief. Obviously, I was not alone. As a matter of fact, it was through the Internet that I had come to be such a skilled and accomplished cross dresser. I had found a transformation salon in the city that catered exclusively to people like me. The only problem was that it was expensive and my forays there were limited. College kids with part-time jobs don’t have a lot of discretionary money. The lady who ran it, a real one I might add, however, took pity on me and threw in a lot of freebies. After a few visits, I had the basics down pat. I was careful not to expand my repertoire beyond her counseling and my closet dressing at home. The stigma of expose was too great.

I reached the Embarcadero and turned right heading east. Breathing deeply, I inhaled the smells and sights of my native town. San Francisco, like my cross-dressing, was part of my DNA. I needed both to live and I was barely 21 years old. When did these love affairs start? In the case of San Francisco, no doubt, it started at my earliest awareness of the city’s indelible presence beyond my crib. In the case of my cross dressing, no doubt, it started when I first became aware of my mother’s presence in panties, bra, and a slip. These seemed like heavenly clothes, the kind angels would wear. My father in his T-shirt and boxer shorts didn’t cut it. This confusion was always there, but I didn’t know how to express it, so I repressed it up to a point.

That point was breeched early on when I was about eight or nine. On a whim one day when my parents were gone, I noticed a slip lying on a chair in their bedroom. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I felt compelled to pick it up and examine it. What a mistake that turned out to be. It was lemon color, soft, flimsy, and exquisitely lavished in lace on the hem and bodice. Incidentally, I didn’t know what a bodice was at that age, but I am sure that you get the picture. Holding this garment in my hands was like an epiphany. I knew that I had to try it on and I did. As soon as I draped it over my quivering body, the fix was in and I was hooked. From slips I progressed to panties, bras, hose, girdles, and so forth right up the apparel chain to where I was today, that is, a completely attired and fashionable cross dresser known only to himself and a sympathetic lady who ran a transformation salon in the downtown south of Market Street. Although I wanted to come out of the closet, my fear of exposure kept me in. I fervently hoped it was not a life sentence, and as events would soon unfold, it wasn’t.

By now, I was hungry, and I hotfooted it up Columbus Avenue in North Beach to a small deli where they made great sandwiches on freshly baked sourdough French bread. After polishing off a house special, a combination of cold cuts, and a decaf Cappuccino, I was ready to resume my excursion. The weather, regrettably, was not cooperating. It started to rain, and rain hard. So much for my walk, I mused. Nor was I that interested in seeing a Robert Redford movie that was getting mixed reviews. Since I was near Green St., I decided to call it a day and head up the hill for home. Here is where things got interesting.

Because my dad sometimes took afternoon naps on weekends, I was extra careful to hold down the noise of my return. As quietly as I could, I unlocked the apartment door, eased it open, entered, and shut it virtually noiseless. From the foyer, it was a short distance to my bedroom, but I decided to peek in the living room in case my dad was there reading or whatnot. He wasn’t. Rather, a strange woman was. She was seated on the couch with her back to me engrossed in a magazine of some kind. Talk about a surreal moment, I felt as if I had just entered the “Twilight Zone.”

“Excuse me, madam,” I said in my best neutral tone while trying to conceal surprise and curiosity. “I’m Rob. Is dad home?”

She replied immediately, “Oh shit.” The voice was familiar. Her magazine snapped shut and she bolted upright. Then she slowly turned to face me. No wonder I had recognized the voice. It was my father in drag. Not that he was easily recognizable. In fact, he came across as a fashionable, middle-aged woman who used her clothes, makeup, and accessories to her best advantage. From a distance or with subdued lighting, he could easily pass. Up close or under strong lighting, he might have a problem. In his own home when discovered by his son, of course, his masquerade was impossible.

I eyed him critically from top to bottom. He was elegantly ensconced in a white chiffon pullover dress with a sheer, open-front jacket with handkerchief sleeves and hem. His hose were a coffee shade and his feet were clad in two or three-inch white, sling back pumps. Long, dangling pearl earrings graced his ear lobes. His wig was expensive and custom tailored, quite fetching. Most impressive was his makeup. Either he had an innate feel for it or he had been subjected to intense schooling. It was skillfully applied. His nails were long and lacquered. Press on acrylics no doubt.

The silence between us was deafening as they say. Each of us was reluctant to speak. Finally, he did. “Rob, I don’t know what to say,” he tentatively began. His eyes reflected great pain and embarrassment.

“Hey, dad, it’s not the end of the world. Take it easy,” I replied. “How about if I mix us a couple of scotch and sodas?” He nodded consent.

In a jiffy, I produced two Glen Fiddichs with a mere splash of soda. Dad took his and sat down in a demure, practiced manner smoothing his dress beneath him. He did it well. His legs were crossed and he sat primly on the edge of the couch with an erect posture. Nervously, he did a hair flip once or twice. I don’t think that he was conscious of it. Slumped in a chair across from him, I loved every minute of his performance. Again, more silence ensued. I broke it by raising my glass and saying, “Cheers.” He returned a tight-lipped smile and raised his glass in return. We slowly sipped our malts and eyed each other. Out of compassion as well as guilt, I broke the impasse first.

“Dad, I understand about cross dressing, so relax, it doesn’t bother me, not in the least. In fact, someone we both know very well is a CD, but you don’t realize it.” With that statement, his artificially shaped eyebrows arched and I had his full attention.

“Who?’ he asked in a voice barely audible.

“I’ll get to that shortly, dad. Trust me,” I cautioned. “I would like to know, though, how long you have been dressing up. Is this something new since mom died or has it been going on for a long time?”

He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and began to explain, “I started when I was a kid back in the forties during the war. My mother was divorced. We lived in a small apartment on Pine St. where we shared a bedroom. From my earliest moments, I was surrounded by femininity. My mother was a beautiful young woman and dressed with style and grace. I particularly remember her under things. They were like something out of a Vargas painting and I loved to watch her sitting in her slip at her makeup table and putting on her war paint. Everything about it was so sensual and inviting. I was attracted to the sights and smells of all the little bottles and compacts and tubes that defined her makeup portfolio. And when she would step into a pair of high-heeled pumps and adjust the seams of her stockings, well, it unleashed powerful, conflicting feelings inside of me. It was inevitable that I began to try her things on which at first were too large for me. Once I did, of course, there was no turning back.”

He paused to collect his thoughts, and then he continued, “Naturally, I got caught. The first time my mom laughed it off as adolescent curiosity and I was not punished nor was I the second time a few weeks later when she caught me again, and in a calm, reasoned manner admonished me to stop. The third time, however, she was ready. She had decided upon a technique known as ‘Petticoat Punishment.’ Unbeknownst to me, she had stocked up on some clothes appropriate for a young girl of nine. In short order at her direction, I soon found myself dressed in panties, a training bra, a slip, a floral print dress with short sleeves and a scoop collar, white anklet sox, and black Mary Jane’s. She painted my fingernails a rich red, applied a matching color to my lips, and just a tinge of rouge to my cheeks. The effect was startling. With the exception of my hair, which was too short, but even that she had curled into a maze of ringlets, I looked quite convincing as a gamine or tomboy. As an afterthought, she positioned a sporty red beret on my head and that pretty much took care of the hair problem. A couple of dabs of cologne were the finishing touches and I had been completely transformed. What kind of punishment is this I thought? I was in heaven until I found out that is how I would be dressed for Thanksgiving Dinner that afternoon at my cousin’s house in the Sunset District. Soon, the entire family clan would know my darkest secret. I started to shake and to cry. I pleaded with my mother not to embarrass me in such a way, but it was too no avail. Off we went to my cousin’s house via Cable Car and a transfer on Market Street to the Taraval Street Car. Suffice it to say, I didn’t see much other than the toes of my brightly polished Mary Janes’s on the way.”

To say that I was the talk of the family get-together is an understatement. The men ridiculed me, the kids shunned me, and the women both kidded and protected me, even my mom. I think she felt sorry for the family furor that my cross dressing had ignited. Remember, this was pre Christine Jorgenson and for the most part, the public perception of cross-dressing was linked to female impersonators. I, as an adolescent male passably decked out in my little girl clothes, was a threat to conventional standards. My uncles were visibly upset. Harsh words floated across the dinning table. Mom and I left early.”

He stopped his narration, held out his glass, and said, “How about a refill, dear?” As soon as the word “dear” had left his mouth, he gasped and put a hand to his mouth as if to close a door. He then went on to say, “I didn’t mean ‘dear’. That slipped out. I think it’s these damn clothes. They take possession of me and it’s all too easy to role-play. Strange as this may seem, I feel serenity rather than humiliation in being exposed by you. Secrets are hard to live with.”

“Coming up, dad,” I said on my way to the kitchen. “Relax. Believe me, I can live with it.” I mixed our drinks.

Upon my return, dad was refreshing his lipstick using a small compact mirror from his purse. He was most adept in his movements. I set our drinks down on the coasters on the coffee table that separated us. Each of us looked at the other and wondered what he was thinking. This was poker at its best.

“How much more do you want to know?” he asked.

“Everything. Let’s get it all out in the open.”

“Okay. I continued to cross dress in the privacy of our apartment on Pine St. There were no more public excursions. My mother became sympathetic and supportive. She taught me almost everything I know about cross-dressing, especially, the use of makeup. I know that I do it well. She also emphasized expensive lingerie. Her rationale was that when a woman’s underpinnings were top notch, she felt good about herself and this was manifested in her outer look. She also emphasized the classic design and to forget fads. They merely come and go. And that’s what I’ve done all these years.”

When he paused to sip his malt, I asked, “How were you able to keep your hobby a secret for so long?” I asked with considerable self-interest.

“Layers of secrecy and lots of luck. Eventually, your luck runs out. That’s what happened today.

“How about mom? Where did she fit in the picture?”

“She accepted it and was most tolerant. We discussed this before we got married. Her only prohibition was that you not be aware of my predilection. Up until today, you weren’t were you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Back in your post natal days, I used to cross dress at home a lot. As soon as I came home, off would come the suit and tie. On would go the peignoir, silk wrap, and mule slippers. At some point, maybe, when you turned three or four, you started to refer to ‘mommy’s slips and daddy’s slips.’ That’s when I went back deep into the closet.”

“Wow, what a story, dad. How about Ginny? Does she know?”

“No, she doesn’t, and I don’t know how to handle it. Her big announcement for this evening has me troubled. I think she may be giving me a marriage ultimatum. I’d commit in a heart beat except I don’t know how to handle this little matter of Veronica.”


“Veronica is my femme name. It’s a play on Vernon.”

“Well, dad or Veronica, whichever you prefer, my advice is for you to play it straight, no pun intended, as you always have. You’re a man of honor and you can be a cross dresser of honor. If Ginny really loves you, the silly matter of both of you competing to wear a little black dress shouldn’t be a major obstacle, not at your ages and positions in life. Hold your cards tight, though. Let her make the first move. I’ll back you up.”


“I’ll show you. Give me a few minutes, Veronica, I’ll be right back. I smiled conspiratorially at my father and left the room. My heartbeat started to race like a NASCAR engine.

About 15 minutes later, I returned. His drink was empty and he was standing by a window gazing towards the Bay. It was readily obvious that his mother and his wife had schooled him thoroughly in the art of feminine deportment. His stance was as suave as that of a runway model. As he idly fingered his pearl necklace, his every gesture or body movement suggested femaleness. All the little nuances were in place. The bias of his dress was perfect.

“Excuse me, Veronica,” I said as I made my grand entrance into our living room. With as much confidence and theatrical flair as I could muster, I eased into the center of the room on my four-inch black pumps. My clutch purse was exactly that, clutched by my side in dramatic fashion. My picture brim hat was pulled low over my forehead so as to inspire 1930’s George Hurrell black and white photographic effects. I hoped that I looked as glamorous as I felt. The room was quiet except for the rasp and rustle of nylon rubbing gloriously against polyester. After a small pirouette, I announced, “My name is Robin, and I am dying to meet you.”

I looked at my father, also known as Veronica, for his response. It was not slow in coming. He looked incredulous. “Oh my god,” he muttered. He stepped forward to examine me closely. I took it in stride. There was no way that I could be embarrassed since we were both gender outlaws and wore the clothing to prove it. Like father like son or was it like mother like daughter? We would have plenty of time to sort that out.

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally commented, “Not bad. You’ve got spunk, girl.”

“Thanks, dad. Coming from you, that means a lot. I would like some help with my makeup, though. I adore yours.”

He laughed. “For starters, go a little easier on the blush,” he said. “Later on, I’ll show you.”

We spent the next hour or so in animated conversation. He wanted to know how I had crossed over. I gave him the details. Naturally, he understood. Our patterns and actions had virtually been identical. There was gaiety in the air as we exchanged confidences about our secret lives. Now, we had at least expanded our respective closets to include our entire apartment. No more frilly stuff had to be hidden under a bed or in a locked piece of luggage. We could let it all hang out like nylons on a bathroom close line. Excitement gave way to euphoria until the subject of Ginny came up. Hmm, what to do? Again, I counseled restraint and to let her make the first move. He agreed. Since it was nearing seven, Ginny’s appointed hour of arrival, we decided it best to change back into boy modes and off we went to remove our apparel of first choice. The big difference this time, however, was that each of us could hang his dress up in his closet as opposed to secreting it away. Effectively immediately, I made the top drawer in my dresser a lingerie drawer. I also envisioned a space for a makeup table. That would be a priority on Robin’s “to do” list.

A few minutes later, we were both back in the living room in drab. As a concession to my newly liberated female self, under my male clothing I was wearing a camisole, panties, and an OBG with gartered hose. Over my hosiery, I was wearing normal sox. I suspected my dad might be similarly attired, but then, maybe not. He still had Ginny to deal with. I had no idea of how she would take to our family’s bizarre preoccupation. Soon enough, I would find out.

Ginny arrived promptly at seven. She swept into the living room with that special touch of female verve and flair that my father and I envied so much. All the appropriate greetings were exchanged. I served drinks. Then, I sat. For now, it was her show.

“Vernon, Rob, I have something to tell you and I’m not quite sure how to break the news,” she began tentatively. My father and I sat in anticipation of a big shoe about to drop. “It involves my son, Eric.”

“Is he in trouble?” my father asked.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Is he gay?” I saucily proffered. Eric was my age, 21, and was supposedly away at school. I hadn’t seen him in over a year.

“No, but you’re getting close.”

“What do you mean, Ginny?” my father enquired gently.

“Well, I hope that you’re ready for this, but about a year ago, Eric confided in me that he wanted a sex change. He told me that this is something that had been gnawing at him from his earliest recollection. He wanted to start gender counseling in preparation for hormone therapy. After a year of living as a woman, it’s called a Real Life Test; he would then be eligible for surgery. At this point, he’s about 10 months into his RLT. Does any of this make sense to you?” she begged.

My father and I exchanged glances of disbelief. This had been a hell-of-a day. My father replied, “As a matter of fact, it does, Ginny, and I can assure you that it doesn’t phase either Rob or me in the least. Isn’t that correct, Rob?”

“You bet, dad.” I couldn’t help grinning broadly as I said that. My father’s facial expression mimicked mine. Ginny was obviously confused at our casual acceptance of her son’s plight. Little did she know. Thank goodness we had let her play the first card. The rest should be a trump.

“Where is Eric now, Ginny?” I asked.

“She, I call him, Erica, is downstairs in the car awaiting your reaction.”

“By all means, Ginny, have her come up. We’d like to see her,” my dad earnestly intoned.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” My dad spoke for the both of us.

Ginny quickly dialed her cell phone and told “Erica, honey” to come up.

Less than five minutes later, “Erica, honey” rang the doorbell. Ginny opened it and they hugged. Hand in hand, they joined us.

You could have heard the proverbial pin drop as Erica sauntered in. Taller than her mother and more slender, she was the epitome of what most cross dresser males fantasize about. The hormone therapy had done its job. Estrogen had taken possession of her body and testosterone was in frantic retreat, if not final surrender. She had curves, breasts, and luxurious blond hair. Her cheekbones were high and her painted lips were full. Undeniably, there were ever so slight traces of maleness in her, but it actually added to her charm and made her appear exotic or beguiling. She was wearing a coral suit with a long skirt and wrap jacket with Princess seams. Her matching handbag was large and just right. Her pumps were of snake-print design and with dress soles and two-inch heels. This young lady was a class act!

“Hi, Vernon, Rob. I guess mom has told you all about me.” She smiled and looked at her mother for emotional support. Her voice range was somewhere between soft and husky. It had a decided female ring. I was simultaneously impressed by and envious of her.

“She has indeed, Erica. Please sit down,” my dad invited.

“I don’t know what to say,” was Erica’s reply.

“You don’t have to say anything, my dear,” my dad said. “Believe me when I tell you that Rob and I can relate to gender confusion. Coincidentally, it has been the number one topic between us this afternoon.”

“Why is that, Vernon?” Ginny asked.

“Ginny, the Chinese have a saying to the effect that a picture is worth a thousand words. If you will excuse me for a few moments, I show you a living example of one,” my dad said as he stood up and gave me a wink. He was now going to play his card.

“Rob, kindly entertain Ginny and Erica in my absence. I’ll be back shortly.”

“It will be my pleasure, dad,” I answered, and it was.

Ginny, Erica, and I made small talk as we waited for my father to return. He wasn’t long and when he waltzed back into the living room in all his feminine finery and high heels with his face made up exquisitely, I stood up and proudly said, “ Ladies, may I introduce Veronica?”

Ginny said, “Oh, no.”

Erica said, “Oh, yes.”

I said, “Oh, boy.”

Dad said, “Can you handle this, Ginny? If you can, I would like for you to marry me. What you see is what you’ll get. I’m a cross dresser. It’s a complicated issue and it requires tact and understanding on both our parts. I promise that I will never embarrass you or bring shame or dishonor to our relationship, but you need to know that Veronica is an integral part of me and she needs attention and loving tender care as do all God’s creatures.”

“Yes, Vernon or Veronica, I can handle it,” Ginny said as she took his hands in hers and squeezed them. “I have learned a lot from Erica.”

“There’s one other thing, Ginny,” I piped in. I figured now was the time to let it all hang out.

“What’s that?”

“You might as well know, I also like to walk on the wild side in heels and hose. You might say that like nylons, it runs in our families.”

Ginny rolled her eyes, shrugged, and simply exclaimed, “I give up. Whatever!”

Erica nodded knowingly, wet her lips, and said, “Cool.”
My dad, Veronica, married Ginny in a simple Justice of the Peace ceremony at the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito two weeks later. I was the best man. Erica was the bridesmaid. Champagne flowed. So did emotions. It was very confusing, but so is life. My dad spends about half his time as Vernon and the other half as Veronica. After many depressed years, he is deliriously contented. What more can I say?

Ginny is the perfect companion for my dad. She knows that the way to his heart is through Victoria’s Secret and One Hanes Place. Fair enough! She frequently buys him little bon motes from each and enjoys his exuberant reaction. It’s a cheap price to pay.

Erica underwent her sexual reassignment surgery as scheduled. Subsequently, she attended and graduated suma cum laude from the University of Southern California’s School for Communications and Media Relations. She is now a talking head for a Major TV Network and appears regularly on their evening news. In keeping with their polices, she is a strident anti-gay and anti-lesbian mouthpiece. The irony is not lost upon us.

As for me, well, I am as confused as ever although a lot happier. I have my own apartment now and two complete wardrobes, one for Rob and a much larger one for Robin. The City of St. Francis is a great town for those of the transgender persuasion as I have found out. Robin loves it and is most active within that community. My lifestyle alternates between Mars and Venus. There is no in between. Venus clearly has the upper hand and I have begun counseling for a MTF rendezvous under a surgeon’s knife.


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